


Five Times Daryl Helped the Winchester Brothers, and the Time They Saved Him

by JeromeSankara, lynna21



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canonical Child Abuse, Casual Sex, Character Death, Demon Summoning, Established Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes, First Time Bottoming, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Grief/Mourning, Hunter Burial, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lost Love, Lust, M/M, Mild Kink, Protective Dean Winchester, Rickyl Writers' Group, Second Chances, Self-Hatred, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Daryl Dixon, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 58,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeromeSankara/pseuds/JeromeSankara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynna21/pseuds/lynna21
Summary: After losing his partner, Daryl abandons his hunting lifestyle and drowns into his grief. That changes when he sees two brothers running for their lives, and makes the split-second decision to help.





	1. The Time No One Could Save Him

Hunting was never supposed to be relaxing, easy, or fun. Then again, it was hard to not enjoy the thrill of the hunt, especially when they were together. It was as easy as breathing, their bodies moving in sync. Their eyes would dart to the other, conveying messages that would take a thousand words to express. There were rarely any hitches, things out of place or any surprises, and their reward for killing another monster was the knowledge that they made their small world a little safer.

But it never was supposed to be easy, never supposed to be safe.

When hunters got complacent, mistakes were made. Making a mistake when you had a werewolf breathing down the back of your neck made a hunter’s already short life span even shorter. Which is why Daryl was glad he had a partner he could trust. Someone he wouldn't hesitate to let watch his back. He knew if they made any mistakes, Rick was the only person in the world, except maybe Bobby Singer, he could trust to make them right.

Rick was his heartbeat, his lifeline, the breath in his lungs. There was no world without Rick, and Daryl couldn't imagine being a part of it without him. Even when their quarry would slip away, or they'd suffer an injury, it was alright, because his other half was still right there. Breathing. Smiling. Radiating with warmth.

Then came the day that the world sucked away his warmth. Trying to hold onto it was like trying to catch sunlight in a jar.

The hunt should have been simple, even though they knew better than to let their guard down. A few random corpses, a dog or two, nothing too out of the ordinary. It was probably a stray beast that had wandered too close to the city.

One of the rules that Daryl and Rick had put in place was simple:  _Never_  separate. Why Daryl chose that day of all the days to break that rule, he’d never know.

They’d tracked something to a house on the outskirts of the city. One of those big tracts of residential housing that no one ever bought into because of the market crash, so most of them stood empty. Daryl was positive that whatever it was had gone around the side of the house, and into the basement, and Rick was equally convinced that it had gone into the house proper.

After a quick argument they both agreed that this one time, since it was going to be such an easy hunt, they’d check things out alone. If there was trouble, Rick still knew all the whistles Daryl had taught him for when they were hunting things other than monsters.

When they parted, Daryl just walked away. He didn't look back, he didn't give Rick a hug, or a kiss, or even a pat on the damn shoulder. He just walked away, something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

The basement was unlocked, just as he had suspected, and Daryl was certain that the tracks led directly down. Rick never was all that great as a tracker. He could barely follow a straight line of prints before being distracted by a random sound or bird.

What Rick lacked in survival instinct, though, he made up for in cleverness. Being able to detect types of monsters, knowing exactly which weapon to use, it all came naturally to him. What didn't come naturally to Daryl was containing his slight arrogance at this easy hunt. He would bring Rick the body and it would be Daryl's turn to decide what movie they would watch that night.

Daryl grinned to himself as he made his way down the stairs.

* * *

 

Shaking his head fondly at Daryl’s retreating back, Rick turned and headed up the porch steps. He squinted at all the debris that littered the floor. Daryl would know if there were any tracks in that mess, but Rick just saw a bunch of leaves and sticks. Walking up to one of the panels of glass that bordered the door, Rick rubbed a sleeve across the dirty surface and pressed his face against it. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he reached for the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned easily.

Choosing to ignore the prickling that had started at the base of his neck, Rick pushed the door open, and stepped inside the house. His Colt gripped firmly in his hand, he moved across the squeaky floor, and into the dining room.

After methodically checking all of the lower floor, the grip Rick had on his Python loosened. Switching hands for a moment, he stretched out his fingers, wondering if Daryl had been right about the tracks after all.

A lowly voiced, “Rick,” from the top of the basement stairs in the kitchen had Rick snapping his head to the side, his Colt raised and pointed at the shadowy figure standing in the kitchen, left handed grip bedamned.

It was only a moment, though, until the shadow moved into the light that managed to shine through the dirty kitchen windows. It accented shaggy brown hair, steel blue eyes, and the smirk that always seemed to be present on Daryl's lips.

Breathing out a long sigh once he realized he had been holding his breath, Rick lowered the pistol. “You didn't whistle,” he mused quietly, tilting his head just slightly to the side. It wasn't usual for Daryl to just tromp around when they were hunting, but perhaps it was because Daryl knew there was no danger.

Daryl's answer was a light shrug, already shouldering the crossbow that had been dangling down from his fingertips at his side, and Rick couldn't help but notice the way Daryl's bicep bulged at the simple motion. Daryl's hand adjusted the tight straps of the bow, as if they were a bit of a bother against his shoulder.

"Didn't find anything. Figured you'd be out of luck too," Daryl sighed, slight disappointment in his blue eyes. Daryl was always eager to hunt, and missing out on their quarry always seemed to weigh heavily on his heart.

Trying his best not to chuckle at the near childish disappointment, Rick closed the distance and gave Daryl a pat on the shoulder. “It's alright. Next time. But I still got the upper floor if you want to check it out?” Of course Daryl would want to. He left nothing to chance.

Daryl nodded, and threw his hand out. “You first, Ranger Rick.”

Scowling, Rick moved up the stairs. “I wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m getting better.”

“Yeah,” Daryl laughed, moving quickly to follow Rick. “You’re just about as good as I was when I was three.”

Rick stopped on the top landing, and glared down at Daryl. “I refuse to believe that you were tracking at three. Maybe six. Five tops. Jerk.”

Firming his grip on his Python once more, Rick moved down the short hallway. It was darker up here. The windows downstairs let in a lot of light, but the one small one at the end of this hallway didn’t do much. “Did you bring your flashlight, boy scout?”

Daryl flinched. If Rick hadn’t been so practiced at reading the few emotions Daryl let show on his face, he wouldn’t have caught it. “No way. The great Daryl Dixon  _forgot_  his flashlight.” Rick laughed, throwing his head back. He looked back to Daryl, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I’m never going to let you forget this, you know.”

The red that crossed Daryl's cheeks was coupled with an awkward attempt to stare at the wall, and he mumbled something under his breath. Embarrassment made his face feel hot, but he soon shook himself. “Where's your damn flashlight?” he grunted, smirking just enough to soften the words.

Rick blinked, then shook his head. “Never had to bring any. I'm the ammo guy.” The wicked glint didn't fade as he turned, sliding his bag off of his shoulders. “I got your extra knife, some bolts, ammo for my Python… Some deer jerky probably as old as this house…” Rick was always a bit of a clutterbug.

He hadn't expected Daryl to reach forward, rummaging through the bag until he slid out the blade of the spare hunting knife. It was odd that it got any use at all, as Daryl never went  _anywhere_  without his favorite knife. But Rick would raise hell about it later, Daryl probably already felt embarrassed enough about the flashlight.

Slinging the bag back over his shoulders, he flicked his gaze down the hallway. There were two rooms on each side of the hall, all the doors closed. Chances are they were bedrooms or bathrooms, but there was no harm in checking each in turn. Casting a glance back to his companion, he raised his Python again before stepping slowly to the first door on the left. Giving the handle a slow, methodical turn, he opened the door, wincing at the creak it gave.

A bathroom. Looking intently into the darkness, and seeing nothing, Rick motioned at Daryl to back away. Moving further down the hallway, Daryl stopped in front of the second door. Nodding at Rick, who raised his gun in readiness, Daryl pushed the door open. A bedroom. Nothing leaped out at them, so the two men made their way into what had to be the master suite.

Letting out a low whistle, the ' _over here'_  call Daryl had taught him years ago, Rick moved in behind the other man. Watching intently as Daryl swung open the door to the master bath, Rick’s eyes widened, and his gun dropped slightly. Smacking Daryl on the back of the shoulder, he gestured to the tub. “Imagine the trouble we could get up to in that thing.” Rick waggled his eyebrows at Daryl before backing out into the bedroom again.

Sure that Daryl would be following behind him, Rick moved back out into the hallway and started checking the last two doors. There was a smaller bedroom, just as empty as the rest of the house, but the last door was locked.

“Where are the lockpicks? I handed them to you before we left the motel.” Rick said, his hand held out expectantly, not even looking away from the door handle.

What Rick had expected to be handed certainly wasn't what he was given, which was fingers intertwined with his own. A hand pressed hard against Rick's shoulder, forcing him to turn around, pressing his back up against the door. The bewilderment that crossed his face seeped away within moments of seeing Daryl's grin, and his smoldering eyes.

“I'll pick your lock right here,” was the purr that slipped from Daryl, stunning Rick. It was rare for Daryl to be so forward, especially when they were on a hunt. Even more so when they could be moments away from finding whatever had been terrorizing the neighborhood.

“D-Daryl, is now really a good time to-”

His reply was cut off by lips pressing against his own and by the arm that curled slowly around his waist. The hand still holding his own tightened, and Rick found his better judgement lapsing. The house was practically empty, and he wouldn't put it past Daryl to have planned this all along. It was probably why he had suggested them splitting up in the first place.

With a smile on his lips, he let his eyes close, submerging himself into the warmth of Daryl's grasp and the sensation of his lips against Daryl's own.

* * *

“...Son of a  _bitch_.”

The world was blurred and churning, almost like waking out of a drunken state. What didn't usually come with getting drunk was the absolute throbbing pain against the side of his head. It certainly didn’t come from any hangover. Daryl could feel the heat, feel the swelling against his hair. God, what did he  _do_.

Hissing softly to himself, he attempted his best to shift up from wherever he was sitting, only to be jolted to a stop. His hands were bound.

A cold shudder ran up his spine as he gave a sharp pull, only to hiss in pain. He was tied up against a pole, some kind of support beam. But he wasn't hurt besides his head.

But what about Rick.

A nauseating feeling came over him, dread and worry trying their best to drown him as he fumbled to reach towards his hip, to the knife sheathed against his skin. It was uncomfortable, but it came in handy. Cutting himself free was going to take time, though, and he had to warn Rick. 

* * *

 

A high whistle, then low, then high again.  _Where are you._

Somehow managing to pry his eyes open, Rick clawed his way out of the haze of arousal that he’d been plunged into, thanks to the man that was currently doing his level best to suck the blood from his neck.

There was a noise, he was sure he’d heard it. “Daryl,” he groaned, as the other man’s hand began to slide up his inner thigh. Clenching his hands around Daryl’s shoulders, Rick tried again. “ _Daryl_! I heard something.” Rick started pushing at Daryl’s chest, trying to separate them.

Daryl just stared into Rick’s eyes, his pupils dilated, and clung onto Rick’s hips with strong fingers. “No,” he said, nuzzling his face into Rick’s neck again, licking across the skin there. “Didn’t hear nothin’.”

“Don’t make me knee you in the crotch, Daryl. Let go,” Rick threatened, continuing to push against the heavier man.

With a loud groan, Daryl backed off, crossing his arms and huffing.

“I’m serious, I heard something,” Rick said, crouching and moving down the hallway towards the stairs. Listening so hard, he swore his eardrums were about to pop, Rick heard it again. “There! Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that!” Rick tilted his head, and looked back at Daryl, confusion written all over his face. “It sounded like the whistle you taught me. ‘Where are you.’”

Rick moved quickly down the stairs, but not before picking up the gun he’d hastily discarded when Daryl had pushed him up against the door. Looking back up, he saw Daryl, standing on the landing, staring down at him. “Daryl?”

All the heat and warmth from Daryl's eyes seemed to die in that moment, his usual smirk turning into a hard line. He took in a deep breath, then let it out slow. “...I heard it,” he muttered softly, and took the first step down. Then the next.

The air split again with the whistle, causing Rick to snap his head around to the open doorway leading to the basement. It was a different whistle, and the chill running down his spine started turning his blood into ice.

One low note, two high.

_Danger_.

“Wish you didn't. Could’a had fun.”

Another step, then Daryl was halfway down. His hand reached down to his side, grasping something Rick couldn’t quite see.

“Rick?!” a voice came from deeper in the house, followed by a footsteps thundering up the basement steps. He was so close. Just a few more steps.

Rick frowned, and looked back up the stairs at Daryl. He was only two steps away now. “Is this a joke or something?” Rick asked, his eyes narrowing. “If it is, I’m not finding it very funny.”

Quick footsteps were making their way to where Rick and Daryl stood, Daryl now directly on the step above Rick. Skidding around the final corner, Daryl rushed toward Rick, his mouth dropping open, and a horrified look on his face. “Rick!”

Still not quite sure of what he was seeing, even though it should have been obvious to him by now, Rick never even saw the knife before it was already hilt deep in his chest.

He collapsed to his knees on the parquet floor of the quarter of a million dollar house, and blood immediately bubbled from his lips. He coughed, blood spraying in an arc from his mouth, and brought up a hand, hovering it above the hilt of Daryl’s back-up knife. Looking up at Daryl once more, the one he now knew, too late, was the real Daryl, he tipped over onto the floor.

_Bang_.

A heavy weight landed down beside Rick's shivering form, and Daryl had to look away from the mirror image of himself, slumped lifelessly on the floor. Blood dripped sluggishly from the single bullet wound right between its eyes, adding to the growing pool around Rick.

_“Rick, no!”_

Daryl’s hands clawed at Rick's body, trying desperately to pull him up as if this was a wound that just  _looked_  worse than it  _was_. But the hilt barely moved. The blade was locked between his ribs and piercing through to Rick's heart.

“No, no, no, Rick, _no_! Don't do this to me!” The commanding voice broke, just as Rick was rolled to face lolling against Daryl's lap, forcing Rick to look up into the blue eyes already filling with tears. Frantic hands pressed down around the hilt of the blade to try and slow the bleeding, but it was only moments before Rick began to choke on his own blood.

Even as his hands shook horrendously, already plastered with hot blood, Daryl turned Rick's head to the side, pressing his forehead against Daryl's stomach.

“It's okay, it's okay!” came Daryl’s desperate plea, his hand pressing against the back of Rick’s head while the other continued to put pressure on the wound. The wound that continued pouring out its unending river of blood. “You're okay, Rick, gonna get you help!” Tears dripped down from Daryl's cheeks, landing against Rick's temple.

Blinking open his eyes, Rick stared up at Daryl. He felt like he was floating above the floor, and he supposed, if this was what it felt like to die, it wasn’t all bad. No pain, just a strange disconnected feeling. He could see Daryl’s lips moving, but the words were like a toneless hum inside his head. That he could do without. He’d have liked to hear Daryl’s voice one last time.

Taking a rasping breath, more blood spilling from his lips, Rick lifted a trembling hand to Daryl’s cheek, not noticing or caring about the blood he smeared there. Somehow he made his lips move, but he wasn’t sure if any sound came out.

Rick was sure Daryl would know what he was saying anyway. He always did.

He smiled up at Daryl, and let his hand fall to the floor, unable to muster up the strength to keep it aloft any longer. His mouth still forming the same three words over and over, Rick let his eyes slip shut, and then all there was, was darkness.  

* * *

Flames licked up at the night sky, where there was no moon to aid in illuminating the pyre Daryl thought he would never have to build.

He never thought he would have to haul Rick's body into the pick-up after sitting with his body for what could have been hours, and take the near eight hour drive back home, all while Rick was slumped in the passenger seat, lifeless.

He never thought he would have to dump the salt all across Rick's bloody and cooling body, then force himself to wrap Rick in the blankets off their own bed because he couldn't bear to watch Rick's body burn away.

Never thought he would have to dig their firepit even deeper and wider to fit all the wood needed, along with Rick's body.

Never thought he would watch the flames slowly eat away his second half, his love, his life, his heartbeat, his warmth.

And he never thought he would sit there playing with the Colt Python Rick rarely allowed out of his grasp.

There was a single bullet in the chamber. He only needed one. He knew just where to aim. It would only take a second… And he could go with Rick.

It was his fault, after all. His fault he hadn't stayed with Rick. His fault that he couldn't stop the bleeding. Daryl’s fault that Rick was gone, and he was alone now.

Even as the sobs backed up in his throat to the point that he could barely breathe, the gun remained down by his side. He didn't even have the strength to pick it up or to pull the trigger.

Squeezing his fingers around the hilt of the Colt one last time, Daryl turned and put it inside the cab of his truck, flinching as it landed in the blood still cooling on the passenger seat. Yet his fingers stroked almost lovingly across the grip, even as they stained it with blood.

He turned back to stare at the fire. Maybe one day he’d deserve to be with Rick again. Until that day, the Colt would be waiting.

And until that day, all he could do was stare at the flames that were slowly consuming the one bright spot in his entire shitty life, thinking the entire time, that it was all his fault.


	2. Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunter has become the hunted, but thankfully there is more than one hunter.

“Fucking  _ run, _ Sammy!” Dean yelled, barely taking a second to look behind him, pressing his fingers against his brother’s back in an attempt to get him to move just a little bit faster.

Sam, his long legs not eating up quite as much distance as they normally would have, staggered, and almost fell.  He’d fallen once already, and likely had a sprained ankle, but they were out of options at this point.  It was run, or be eaten.

Throwing another look back over his shoulder, Dean cursed.  It was getting closer, sticking to the edges of the trees, in the darker shadows.  Almost like it didn’t want to be seen, even though Sam and Dean were all too aware that it was there. He could hear the paws thundering into the earth, the rasping pants, the branches snapping away from its path…

With every step it was getting closer, and he couldn't bear staring at the beast hidden in the shadows.

“Sam, you need to move your ass!”

“I’m going as fast as I can, you dick!  I think my ankle’s broken,” Sam wheezed, his breath coming in short pants.  

“Your whole damn body is gonna be broken if you don’t move,” Dean said, giving Sam another hard shove.  “ _ Now! _ ”

Breaking through a strand of trees and into an open meadow, Dean cursed again, and they both skidded to a halt.  No trees to weave between, and no cover at all.  He quickly measured the distance across the open area, and ran a hand through his hair, grabbing and pulling at the short strands. There was no way they could beat it to the other side.

Hell, what was on the other side?

“Dean.  Do you hear that?” Sam whispered.

Dean cocked his head to the side and listened, barely hearing past the blood pounding in his ears.  Where before there had been no sound apart from the crashing in the underbrush unnervingly close behind them, now that had stopped, and small forest noises were beginning to fill the air again.  

“What the hell, Sam.  Did it stop?”

Their panting was slowing at this point, and they strained to listen for any sign of the werewolf that had been chasing them for what felt like miles. It could be just at the treeline, hesitant to step out into the moonlight, or it was prowling and preparing for when the two would have to enter the forest again.

Either way, it wasn't good.

Dean’s hand brushed against his side, grabbing the silver knife that had been smeared with blood already. It had only struck a glancing blow, and all it accomplished was getting the werewolf  _ angry.  _ They were nearly out of bullets, out of breath, and out of time.

They shared a glance, something akin to a final goodbye, and a determination to go out swinging no matter what. Moving cautiously, Dean started taking slow steps back to the treeline.

“Get over here, dumbasses, I killed it for you!”

The voice was unfamiliar, and it certainly wasn't their werewolf. It practically roared through the thick forest, shattering the deafening silence.

Dean jolted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his knife out of instinct, and he could hear Sam taking in a sharp breath. Were they being followed? Was there a pack? He could have  _ sworn  _ there was only one! They were frozen in place, waiting for whoever it was to reveal themselves.

“...For fucks sake, get your asses over here.”

The voice was impatient, and tough, almost gravely. Whoever it was, it would probably be wise to not piss them off.

Dean took a few hesitant steps forward, doing his best to peer into the darkness ahead of them, but he couldn’t see anything.  He’d have taken a few more steps if it wasn't for hearing Sam give a wheezy laugh.

“You’re not actually going over there are you?  What if it’s some crazy nutbag, or something?”

“Like we really have a choice here?  Whoever it is, he said it’s dead, so he’s gotta know something. Right?”  Dean spent a few seconds after he finished speaking to wish his voice had sounded more reassuring.  More sure.

“If you two don’t get yourselves over here in 10 seconds, I swear to god, I’m gonna put a silver bolt in both your asses.”

Dean straightened, the subtle command he’d always heard in his father’s voice was in this guy's voice, too.  He was hardwired to follow it, to not question orders. Walking back over to Sam, he wedged a shoulder under his brother’s arm, and hauled him upright from where he’d slumped against a tree.  “Let’s go,” Dean said, his voice only straining a little from holding up the weight of his much bigger little brother.  “Don’t wanna get a bolt in my ass.”

After dragging Sam twenty or so yards, Dean stopped, and propped him up against a tree.  “I’m gonna go first.  I’ll be back in a minute.”  Lifting his gun, Dean checked it with easy, fluid motions.  Motions he’d practiced thousands of times.  A round in the chamber, and three in the clip.  “Wish me luck, Sammy,” he muttered, and he stepped through the trees, out of Sam’s sight.

Once he was within the shadows of the trees again, a hard lump came up his throat. These woods were supposed to be abandoned. No one had followed them from the beaten path they had traveled, and they had been  _ sure  _ to keep someone on watch during the night.

Whoever this person was, they would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

What Dean saw first was the body. It was a young male in his early twenties with dark brown hair. The same man they had been following for days. The next thing he saw was the arrow that jutted out of his right side, thin and quivering with the faint breeze. Dean could just barely make out the feathers catching the moonlight, being on the end not currently several inches deep into the dead werewolf.

He didn't get to see much after that, not as a heavy weight slammed into his side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Any attempt to do so much as take the knife from his sheath was not allowed, not as large hands clamped down upon his wrists, pulling them up hard behind his back.

“You make a sound for your buddy, you're fuckin’ dead.”

The hiss was hot against his cheek, just as the weight settled on his lower back. Great. He had fallen straight into the trap, and he was probably going to die. Fucking great.

“The hell, man?!” Dean hissed, only to flinch as one of the hands started running along his back, sides, arms, plucking out whatever weapon the mystery man ran across in his search. So now he was going to be robbed  _ then  _ murdered.

“Quiet,” the hiss came again, this time softer but no less commanding. Dean grimaced, but stayed silent. Last thing he needed was to have Sam hobble into this mess and get them both killed.

The large hand reached between the dirt and his body, searching his chest, but Dean had to draw the line just as he felt the hand grope against his crotch.

“The  _ fuck! _ ” Dean growled, squirming within the bulkier man’s grasp. He attempted to turn and glare at his attacker, or rapist, he still wasn't sure which, but the hand immediately pushed his head back down into the soil.

“You're shit at followin’ rules.”

Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, Dean threw his hips up, hoping to knock the personal space invading douchebag off his back.  His move was anticipated though, and all the man did was chuckle.  “You can do better’n than that.  Didn’t your Daddy teach you nothin’?”

“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you know about what  _ my Daddy _ did or didn’t teach me?” Dean growled, though it sounded less threatening as it was muffled through the soil.

Feeling the hand release his wrists, and the weight lift off his back, Dean surged to his feet.  His fists raised in front of his face defensively, as he swung around to face his attacker, or whatever he was, but there was nothing to hit. The other man was currently leaning up against a tree, one foot propped up against the trunk, with a wicked looking crossbow dangling against his hip. His features were obscured in the darkness he stuck to within the thick trees, but he could make out the outline of wide shoulders and long, thick hair.

“You two must be stupid, comin’ all the way out here lookin’ for a werewolf, and not bringin’ anything but a gun and a few knives.”

Dropping his fists, and looking warily at crossbow guy, Dean straightened.  “Maybe it didn’t go exactly like we planned, but we had it covered.”

The guy scoffed, and pointed his crossbow in the direction of the corpse on the ground.  “From where I’m standin’, looks like I had it covered.”  

“Whatever, man. Are you gonna like, act out a scene from Deliverance here, or can I relax?  No banjos in the woods, right?”

The guy’s eyes narrowed.  “Ain’t no one out here gonna do anything to your lily white ass, so calm the hell down.  Why don’t you go get your brother, and you can burn this asshole, so I can get the fuck outta here before daylight.”  He spit on the ground, a wet plop hitting the dirt inches away from Dean’s feet that had him skittering back on the balls of his feet.

The man huffed at Dean's reaction, then shifted a hand into his jacket pocket. At first Dean was unsure of what the man was doing until the he'd flicked on a zippo, lighting the end of a cigarette. “Done scared away all the game with your yellin’, and I doubt anything’ll show up around here for at least a week or so,” he grunted, pulling the cigarette to his lips. The low glow illuminated dark brown hair, and sharp blue eyes. Everything about this man  _ screamed _ lone wolf.

Dean nodded. His instincts were usually pretty spot on, and they told him that this guy was probably on their side. After all, if he had wanted to kill Dean, he would have already. Dean carefully started scooping up the numerous knives and the gun the man had emptied his pockets of, feeling that icy glare burning into his back. Hurrying to where he left Sam, he quickly explained the stranger to his brother, and dragged his heavy ass back through the trees.  

Leaning Sam up against a tree, Dean went about gathering wood.  This was going to take forever, but it had to be done, and Sam wasn’t going to be any help at all.  His younger brother was too busy looking at the other man, curious about their rescuer, yet he was smart enough to not ask questions. He had a feeling they would not be answered.

Dean looked at the other man, who was still leaning against the tree, stroking his crossbow like a lover.  “It’d really speed things up if you helped,” he muttered, under his breath.

“Already helped you boys out more’n I cared to.”

“Jesus, what do you have bionic hearing?” Dean scowled.  

Sam laughed, and pushed himself off the tree, limping over to the other man.  “Sam.  Winchester,” he said, holding out his hand.  “Thanks for the help.”

“Don’t rightly care,” the man said, looking at Sam’s hand with distaste. His hand reached up only to take the cigarette from between his lips, then tap it to shake off the cooling embers. “Just clean up your mess, and get the hell off my property.”  Turning his back on the two brothers, the man cast one last glare over his shoulder, and melted back into the trees.

Dean watched the shadow slip into darkness, but he had a feeling that it would not be the last they would see of him. Especially since the idea of leaving the forest may be a bit harder than he initially thought.

Sighing loudly to himself, Dean dropped the slightly pathetic small pile of wood, deciding that it would have to do. With no more threat, chances are they could both rest and be on their way by morning.

...if it weren't for the fact that Sam was practically hobbling.

Only once he dug out a pit for the wood and lit a small fire did he glance back up at Sam, who was still gazing out into the woods, like he expected the man to come back any moment. “Sam, let me take a look at your ankle,” he sighed, slowly sitting himself down beside the low glow of firelight. They still needed to burn the body, but it would have to wait a bit. Sam came first, everything else second.

Trying not to wince at the sight of Sam having to push himself up from against the tree and his failed attempt to hide his pain, his brother eventually sat down beside him. Making quick work on rolling up his pants leg, he gave a low whistle.

“That's swollen to shit.”

“Thanks, Dean. Good to have your support.” Sam's hand patted against his shoulder, and Dean could almost hear his eyes rolling.

His hand pressed against the ankle, already feeling the heat. Sam would flinch or hiss in pain from time to time, and it took a few moments for Dean to start prying off Sam's shoe. Of course it was difficult, and every movement only seemed to make things worse, but he managed to work the boot free.

“God  _ damn,  _ brother, there's a thing called odor eaters.” Dean wrinkled his nose, dropping his brothers foot in mock disgust. He earned a swat to the back, but heard Sam chuckle anyway.

“We don't have anything to wrap it with, so you may have to suck it up tonight and see how it is in the morning. Try to find a river to soak it in.”

Sam groaned, flopping onto his back. They were usually more prepared than this. But since they weren’t expecting to actually  _ find _ the damn thing, everything was left back at the motel. Lot of use it was back there. Lesson learned.

Dean’s head snapped up from where he’d let it droop when he heard a noise off to their left.  His hand automatically went to his gun, and Sam’s did the same.

“Relax, I ain’t gonna murder you,” the voice said from the trees.  Walking into their circle of firelight, the crossbow guy threw down a beat up backpack at their feet.  “Some ace bandages in there, an’ some jerky.  Hope you like deer,” he smirked, the first sign of actual friendliness, or at least the lack of potential murderous intent.

 

“Thanks…  Uh, what’s your name?” Sam asked, as he reached out for the backpack, already searching for the jerky.

The man grunted, and his brows furrowed.  “Guess you can call me Dare.  If you have to call me anythin’.”

Sam, nodded, and spoke through a huge mouthful of meat, “You’re a lifesaver, Dare.  Thank you.”

Dean frowned.  “Why are you helping us again?”

“Dean!”  Sam reached out and punched his brother on the arm.  “Gift horses.  Shut up.”

“I’m just wondering, Sam.  Not like he’s getting anything in return.”

Scowling, Dare turned and walked away, his angry words carrying easily through the darkness.  “Ungrateful assholes.  Last time I stick my neck out.  Let you get eaten by the damn wolf next time.”

They sat there in the firelight for a few minutes before Dare’s voice floated out of the woods once more.  “If you want a ride out of these woods, you best get that body burnin’.  I ain’t gonna sit out here all night waitin’ for your pansy asses.”

The awkward silence stretched on a few moments more as they waited for any more words of wisdom from their mystery man. When none came, Sam aimed another punch to Dean's arm. “If you fuck this up, I'm driving Baby home.” Sam grunted, about as good of a threat as he could think of at this moment.

Dean grumbled under his breath, already starting to stand himself up. “Can you get your ankle wrapped by yourself? I'll get the body burnt.” He was answered with a nod and a look that easily spelled out 'I'm better at this than you are anyway.’ Which was true.

Digging into the bag still on Sam's back, he pulled out the bottle of salt. It was always good to keep some around, as well as holy water, stakes, and silver. Apparently everything except medical supplies. This would be the last time Sam let Dean do the packing.

He gave the body a quick glance as he dumped a heavy amount of salt on top of it. The man was about as average as they came. Perhaps if he hadn't started tearing up the little town of Senoia a few miles away, it would have never come to this. But this was a normal job nowadays, barely anything worth thinking about other than the fact that they had been lucky the crossbow guy was here.

But before he lit the fire, he couldn't help but glance down to the arrow still protruding out of his side. Chances are Dare would want it back. Huffing a sigh, he gripped the bolt near the entry site, and started pulling. It was actually much harder than he had expected, and it took a few good tugs before he managed to rip it from the wound.

The tip glistened in the moonlight, covered in blood, but there was silver just visible beneath the thin coating. There were pieces of flesh still stuck behind the head, a gruesome reminder of the accuracy and the damage it caused.

It was the only wound on the body that he could see, and it had to be the killing blow… But the wolf had been running. Like, sprinting. Galloping. Full blown 'I'm going to kill you if I catch you’ run. How the man could possibly have made a shot so accurate on a moving target, all while being mindful of the shoulder, the leg, the fur, the precise angle to reach the heart…

It was a skill that left him in momentary awe, slowly rolling the bolt between his fingertips.

But he soon reminded himself that there was work to do. They needed to get out of this forest before crossbow guy decided to turn said bow on them.

Tucking the bolt underneath his arm, Dean carefully scattered forest debris across the corpse, before taking a burning stick from the fire. He dropped it onto the body, and after a few hesitant moments of the fire _ maybe  _ going out, it started to spread. There. Another case closed.

Dean wiped his hands across his shirt, glancing back to his brother who was still wrapping up his ankle. It was slow and he could tell by the way Sam was gritting his teeth that it was painful. Hopefully it wasn't actually broken. A sprain they could handle, but tearing something or breaking the ankle would take  _ way  _ too much time to heal.

“How's it going?” Dean asked, stepping back over to the original fire. He knelt down, pressing his fingers against the bandages to help hold them in place while Sam tightened them.

“Sucky,” Sam grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Can you  _ try  _ not to be an asshole with Dare? He's the only chance we have of getting out of these woods, like, ever.”

“I could totally get us out of here if I wanted to,” Dean scoffed, looking into the forest surrounding them.  Noticing the incredulous look on Sam’s face, he said, “What?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, his hands smoothing down the end of the bandage, “You got lost in a Super WalMart.”

“For the last time, I did  _ not _ get lost!  I just got distracted by all the guns, and forgot you were waiting for me.”  Dean glared down at Sam. Once the bandages were wrapped tight, Dean assisted in helping Sam put the shoe back on. It was barely hanging on at this point, but it was better than being partially barefoot. “Just shut up and let’s go.”

Getting Sam up from the ground was much harder than Dean expected. “Did you gain weight?” he griped, helping Sam limp towards where they’d heard Dare’s voice.

“Would you girls quit your bitchin’ and hurry the fuck up,” Dare yelled from a few feet to their left.

Sitting on a 4-wheeler, Dare glared at them, the corners of his mouth pulled down into a forbidding scowl. The cigarette was being stomped out beneath his foot, almost as if he were imagining Sam and Dean beneath his heel instead.

“Would have been easier if you’d driven that thing a few more feet,” Dean grumbled.  “Ass-”

Dean’s words were cut off by a sharp elbow to the side from Sam.  “Thanks, Dare.  We appreciate all the help.”  He shot a pleading look at Dean.  “Even if some of us have trouble  _ saying the words. _ ”

Dare just grunted, and pointed at the rack on the back end of the ATV.  “Get comfy.  Got a bit of a ride.”

“Dude, seriously?” Dean said, looking at the spot Dare expected them both to sit.  “I doubt Sam  _ by himself _ would fit there.”

Dare shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, starting the ATV.  Speaking above the noise of the engine, he continued, smirking just a bit, and jerked his head to the right.  “My cabin is about 10 miles that way.  Enjoy your walk.”

“Dean!” Sam groaned out loudly, before working himself free from his brother's grip. Just because his brother was going to spoil this opportunity didn't mean that Sam wouldn't take up the offer. “I'm sorry about him, he hasn't had his nap,” Sam tried to pass off his brother's behavior, and Dare only shrugged.

“Bitch can find his own way to the cabin.” The man reached back before patting against the extra room on the seat right behind him. “You're up here. Don't wanna fuck up that ankle more.”

Sam sighed in relief, easily abandoning his brother for the slow limp to the ATV. As if only now realizing his mistakes did Dean start to stammer, a combination of trying to tell Sam that they couldn't trust this guy and also that he needed to go with him, but the engine was already throttled.

Dare reached back a hand to assist Sam, but he seemed to stiffen up the moment Sam actually sat behind him, his shoulders raised and his head down. He barely made a sound, though, as if trying to stifle any of his own complaints. His hands gripped the handles before pulling out the brakes, starting to move.

“Wait! Fuck!” Dean cried out, his face going pale when he realized the man was indeed not bluffing about leaving him behind. Bursting out into a run for what could be the fourth time that day, he clamored to catch up, only to see the ATV lurch forward.

“Gotta try harder than that,” was Dare’s taunt over the roar of the engine, just as he slowed down again. The bursts repeated several times, and only on the sixth attempt did Dean finally manage to catch up enough to grab onto the back of his brothers shirt and the rack, hauling himself up to the precarious position of sitting between the seat and the rack, all while trying to not let his feet get caught beneath the large tires.

Something close to a laugh rumbled in Dare's chest, before he finally drove to full speed.

It was an awkward ride to say the least, Sam and Dean passing silent glances and questions like 'What did we get ourselves into’, 'Is this guy going to skin us alive,’ 'Is this how we die.’ All the while Dare said nothing and seemed to be content with the silence.

It was only after what felt to be at least a half an hour of twisting between trees, across bumps and grooves, even a ledge here and there, that the cabin finally started to come into view.

It wasn't small, but not large either. A quiet in between. Small enough to be concealed by the forest that surrounded it. Parked out in front was a weathered pick-up, while parked close to the door was a motorcycle, because  _ of course _ there was a motorcycle. The lights were off, and it seemed like most of the windows were covered by either thick curtains or blankets.

Great. Did they just allow themselves to be lured into a vampire’s nest?

Dare drove around the side of the cabin, and parked in front of a small shed.  It looked just big enough to hold the ATV.  Dare reached back a hand to help Sam get off, and Dean watched as the man flinched at contact with Sam.

“You can wait on the porch,” he said, looking at them through narrowed eyes.  “I only got one rule, and you follow it, or you get out.  Don’t touch anything.”  Dare met Dean’s eyes, his stare hard, then moved that same penetrating gaze onto Sam.  “Do that, and keep your mouths shut, I’ll give you a ride into town in the mornin’.”  Dare glanced up at the moon.  “Shit, maybe the afternoon.”

Revving the ATV once more, Dare pulled it into the shed, coming out and locking the door behind him.  While he busied himself with whatever the fuck he was doing when he walked over to the motorcycle, Dean helped Sam up the steps to the porch, leaning him up against the rail.

“This is a nice cabin,” Sam said, smiling at Dare.  “Pretty far off the beaten path, though.  How long have you lived out here?”

“Long enough,” Dare said, not even sparing Sam a glance. It killed the conversation quick enough, and they both fell into silence.

Pulling a folded leather cloth out of the locked compartment on his motorcycle, Dare tucked the bulky looking package into the pocket of his jacket.  He gave Sam and Dean another of those long looks as he walked up to the front door.  “I’m serious about keepin’ your hands to yourselves.”

The brothers nodded, even Dean sensing that this was not something he wanted to push Dare on.

Dare unlocked the door, and walked inside, flipping a switch to the left of the door.  Now, when Dare had said he had a cabin, Dean had pictured it in his head.  His imagination had conjured up lots of stuffed squirrels, and other taxidermied delights, gun racks everywhere, and a matching set of camouflage furniture.  What he walked into couldn’t be further from that.  

The place was surprisingly tasteful. The floor was highly polished, the light wood showing a beautiful grain pattern, and an overstuffed leather couch in a soft grey shade took up the spot in front of the fireplace, a natural wood coffee table sitting in front of it. On the left side of the couch was a brown leather armchair, but it seemed to be gathering dust on the surface.

There were multiple photos on the pale beige walls, all black and white.  There were some of a cityscape Dean recognized as Atlanta, and several of what, Dean suspected, was the forest they were smack in the middle of.  

“I was not expecting it to look like this,” Dean chuckled.  “I was expecting more Grizzly Adams, less Pier One.”

Dare growled, and stalked over to Dean, nearly bumping their chests together.  “You got a problem, sleep on the fuckin’ porch.”

“Hey,” Sam said, reaching out for Dare’s shoulder, only to watch the man flinch hard, and back away quickly.  “He didn’t mean anything by it.  This is really nice.  For being so far out in the woods.”

Dare crossed his arms and glared at Dean, the muscles in his forearms twitching.

Dean smiled weakly at Dare, not knowing what to say.  Settling Sam on the couch, Dean reached for a blue plaid blanket that lay across the back of it, intending to drape it over Sam.  Before he could do much more than tug at the edge of it, Dare yelled, “No!”

Startled, Dean’s fingers tightened on the blanket, only to have it snatched roughly out of his hand.  Bringing his fingers up to his mouth, he hissed.  Friction burns were a bitch.  “What the hell, man?  Not supposed to touch a blanket on a couch Sam is supposed to sleep on?”

Any more words that threatened to spill out of his mouth were stopped as he turned to glare at the man that had so rudely snatched away Sam's only means of warmth. It had been too dark outside to really see Dare, and other than the massive shoulders and the long hair, there had been almost no way to catch a better sight with him always lingering in the shadows.

His eyes were a stormy blue, to the point that Dare's growl could have been the the thunder that seemed to be raging within them. His jaw was clenched tightly, exposing his teeth, but the things that caught his attention the most were the dark pools beneath his eyes. There were hints of scars surrounding the left eye, leaving the space under his eyes baggier than what seemed normal, as if sleep was forbidden. His dark hair was choppy, overgrown.  Like he hadn't cut it in what could have been years. He looked like a mix between a feral monster and a beaten dog at the same time.

Dare didn't even bother answering Dean, as he turned away, the light glinting off a silver watch on his lean wrist. His back revealed the leather jacket, the sleeves ripped off and the leather wings sewn to the back. They were far from the original white, collecting dirt and yellowing with age, while there were a few remnants of what could have been blood. It was tattered, much like the man who wore it.

The crossbow he had not dared to move off of his arm or shoulder still lingered there as if that was its permanent resting place. Like it was a piece of Dare’s body.

Dare still clutched the blanket, furiously folding it back up again as he stepped away from the couch. “Don't. Touch. My.  _ Shit.” _ It was a snarl that nearly shook the pictures off of the walls, the deadly glare burning into Dean again. His anger seemed patently unnecessary for something as small as a blanket, but Dean forced himself into silence.

Sam had done the same, practically sinking into the couch to make himself look smaller before the angry man, but Dare barely noticed. Not as he stepped out of the room, going down a hall. A door was slammed a few moments later, and silence resumed.

Dean's heart hammered in his chest, before he forced himself to swallow. He glanced back down to Sam, before carefully patting his shoulder. “I'll… Get the fire going. That should help.” If he was allowed to even touch that much.

Now watching every move he made in case there would be another trigger that would send a bolt straight into his head, he knelt down in front of the fireplace. It was relatively simple, and after grabbing a match and tossing in a new chunk of wood, he had it lit in no time.

He waited for a few moments, bracing himself for Dare to tear into him again, but when nothing happened, he allowed himself to stand up. Only then did he see the row of pictures sitting atop the fireplace. They weren't the landscapes and cityscapes that covered the walls.

They were of Dare.

Dean stared at the pictures, mute.  They lined the entire mantle.  Focusing in on the first one that caught his eye, he picked it up.  It was Dare, and another man.  They were standing in front of a grill, both holding bottles of beer, toasting the camera.  They looked happy. Dare seemed remarkably younger, at least by five or six years, if not a full decade. Setting the picture back into its spot, he picked up the next one.  Dare and the same man.  This time the two men were pressed up close to one another’s sides, the curly haired man’s arm around Dare’s shoulders, and his face leaning into Dare’s neck.  They were both grinning broadly. His eyes flicked down to an odd shiny spot in the picture, only to see that the flash was being reflected off of a silver watch, but on the  _ other _ man’s wrist.

When Dean moved on to the next picture, his shoulders tensed.  It was a picture of just the other man with what Dean could now see were bright, almost electric blue eyes.  He was lying in what looked like a bed, his eyes hooded, and sated. His body was bare to the camera. The covers next to him were rumpled, and folded back, showing the sharp angle of one hip bone. It was… strangely artistic. Gulping, Dean continued to stare at the picture. There was something about this man.  Whoever he was to Dare, he was important. He had to be, because as far as Dean could tell he was in all of the pictures.

Quickly moving through all the other pictures on the mantle to confirm his thought, he stopped at one that was partially hidden behind another.  Reaching back and pulling it out, he gasped. Dare was in this one, too.  They were embracing, looking into each other’s eyes, and Dean could practically feel the love pouring out of the frame.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dare growled, his voice only inches from Dean’s ear.  Dean started, and dropped the frame, the glass shattering on the hearth of the fireplace, and then he watched, horrified, as the frame tipped over and fell into the flames.

In one swift motion, Dean was violently thrown away from the fireplace, and Dare was desperately clawing into the flames. The grate was pulled back just enough for Dare to make more room for himself, but he barely made a sound as the flames licked up his unprotected arm.

Because all he could look at was the image of the man held within his arms, the edges of the picture already starting to burn.

Precious seconds were lost in his constant attempt to try to pick it out of the flames, before he all but dove his left arm into the fireplace.

He recoiled quickly, and finally broke in a horrific screech of pain. Dean couldn't tell if it was for the arms that were now red hot and burned, or for the picture he clutched to his chest.

The man was knelt down in the middle of the floor, his body coiled up around what seemed to be his very lifeline. His entire body was shaking, and Dean could clearly see the blisters starting to form on Dare's left arm, from his fingertips almost all the way to his elbow.

There was a horrific, painful silence as Sam’s gaze remained entirely upon Dare, unable to move to either see if Dare was severely injured or try to comfort him. All Dean could think was he had just forced the man that had saved their lives to throw himself into a fire to save something Dean had carelessly dropped.

After Dare had told them to not touch anything.

The silence seemed to stretch on, but Dean knew he had to try repair some of the damage he had caused.

“D-Dare, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. We gotta get you some ice or water for your arms. Sam, get the bandages from the bag,” Dean tried to say soothingly, trying to take control of the situation even when it had already spiralled far out of his reach.

Before Sam could even move, though, he cautiously stepped closer to Dare, reaching down to touch his shoulders. “Where's your kitchen? If we get them under some water-”

_ “Get out! Get away!” _

The beastly roar almost didn't fit the shivering form, until Dare snapped his head up to stare into Dean's eyes. He was frozen as he was forced to stare into the agony, fury, and loss that shone from them, followed by tears starting to leak down his face.

_ “I said get out!” _

The picture was clutched to his chest by his right hand, the left and more damaged arm reaching out and violently pushing Dean to the floor. “Get outta my house! Get outta my forest, get your pussy ass outta my sight,  _ never come back! _ ”

Dean held up his hands, and spoke again.  “Look, man, I know I fucked up, okay?  But I can’t drag Sammy out into the woods right now, he’s hurt.”  Looking into Dare’s rage-filled eyes, Dean tried again.  “I won’t leave him, but I’ll stay out on the porch, okay?  I won’t be in here, just please, let Sam stay.  We’ll leave at first light, I swear.”

Pushing himself up from the floor, Dare glared at Dean, and Dean swore that if Dare could have gotten away with killing him in that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated.  “If you set  _ one foot _ inside my house again,” Dare growled, in a low voice, “I will not think twice about putting a bullet between your eyes.”  

Reaching his injured hand into his vest pocket, he pulled out that bundle he’d retrieved from his motorcycle barely 45 minutes ago, and opened it up. Before Dean could draw another breath, the muzzle of a Colt Python was an inch away from the middle of his forehead.  “And I’ll do it with this gun, you hear me?  With  _ his _ gun,” Dare spat, pointing his other hand at the photos on the mantle.

Dean swallowed but nodded, and turned to Sam.  “I’ll be on the porch.  Just yell if you need something and I’ll…  uh.  I’ll pound on the door, I guess.”  He glanced over at Dare, not meeting the other man’s eyes.  “I’m sorry.”  He locked eyes with Dare for just a moment, but the rage in the other man’s eyes was enough to get Dean moving out the door.  “I’ll just go now.”

When the door shut behind him, Dare looked away and back down at the frame in his hand.  The edges were singed pretty good, but the majority of the picture was intact.  Suddenly frantic, Dare flipped the frame over, and pried up the tabs holding it in place.  Pulling the back off, he slipped the picture out onto his hand, and looked at the back, sighing in relief.  He ran his fingers over the words written there, his eyes welling up with tears all over again.   _ You’re worth it, Daryl.  I love you. - Rick _

A sob quickly building in his throat, Dare turned away from Sam, and walked out of the room, shutting his bedroom door quietly behind him.

* * *

Morning came too quickly for all three of the hunters. Dean gained little to no sleep on the porch, Sam's was fitful at best, and Dare… he was probably too busy tending to the burns lacing his arms.

It was hard to tell inside the house when the sun actually came up, but Dean would have full awareness, and he wanted to leave as soon as possible before there was the possibility of confronting Dare again. It was for that reason that the knocking began against the door just after the sun fully rose over the horizon. Staying true to his word, because there was no way Dare would be bluffing about putting a bullet between his eyes, he remained on the other side of the door.

Sam, on the other hand, was allowed to sleep until the rapping at the door finally pulled him out of his light sleep. For a moment, the entire previous day was only a bad dream, but as his eyes set on the cooling embers of the fireplace, the grate tossed aside and the glass still littering the floor, it all came back.

What was new, though, were the items left for him on the coffee table right beside his propped up foot.

A set of keys, the bag Dare had first given them refilled with water, jerky and some wraps for his ankle, a crutch leaned against the couch, a map with a route highlighted, and a note.

The handwriting was scrawled, nearly illegible at times, but the point was still clear.

_ S & D- _

_ Know where your car is. Gonna go southeast about four miles. Keys for the ATV. Leave it by the river, I'll find it. _

_ Fuck off and don't come back. _

_ -D _

Sam read the note, and couldn’t help but laugh softly. They’d caused nothing but trouble for the other man, yet he’d gone out of his way to help them.  Glancing at the photos on the mantle, he noticed the one that Dean had almost destroyed was still missing.  Sam hoped it wasn’t too bad, for Dare’s sake, since it seemed to mean so much to him.

“Jesus, Dean, knock it off!” Sam yelled, when the pounding on the door got to be too much for him.  “I’ll be out in a minute, keep your pants on.”

“Daylight’s burning, Sammy, and we have a long walk ahead of us.  Hope that ankle is feeling better,” Dean called out through the door.

Grabbing the crutch, Sam pushed himself up to his feet, wobbling slightly.  He rested his foot gently on the ground, and tested his weight.  Hissing softly, he resigned himself to using the crutch for the next little while.  

Slinging the backpack over his shoulders, and putting the keys and map inside the front pocket of his shirt, Sam hobbled to the door.  An idea occurred to him, and he groaned, making his way back to the coffee table, and picking up the note.  Grabbing the pen he quickly wrote out his thanks, and, as an afterthought, wrote down his cell number.  Just in case.

Returning to the door, Sam opened it to see Dean sitting on the stairs.  “Ready?  Whoa, where’d you get the crutch?”

“Where do you think I got it, Dean.  I’ll give you three guesses,” Sam laughed, punching his now standing brother on the arm again.  

“Ow!” Dean grumbled, rubbing at the spot that had been abused several times in the last few hours.  “What was that for?”

Same let out a bark of laughter.  “For being a dumbass, Dean.  Are you stupid?”

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Dean flushed.  He looked up at Sam, sincerity shining in his eyes.  “It really was an accident, Sammy.  I didn’t mean to drop it.”

“I know,” Sam sighed.  “I’m pretty sure Dare knows, too.  He left us the keys to his ATV, so we can use it to ride outta here.”  Sam jingled the keys in Dean’s face, smirking when Dean grabbed for them, but came up short. “It would serve you right if I left you here.  Make you clean his house, or something.”

Dean hung his head.  “I’m never gonna be able to live last night down, am I?”

Sam nodded, then changed his mind, shaking his head emphatically.  “Jerk.”

The response was so ingrained into Dean by this point, that before he even knew what was happening, he replied, “Bitch.”

* * *

The roar of the ATV was slow to fade into the distance, as the two found it a bit difficult to find a steady pace that didn't either ram them against a tree or went at a snail's pace. It would have been amusing at any other time, but the dull blue eyes held no mirth.

The thick curtains closed just as they disappeared from sight, the tightly wrapped fingers sliding away. It had taken Daryl hours to properly wrap up his left arm, and he had at first considered making Sam help, but banished the thought. He could handle it. He didn't need their help.

Daryl leaned down carefully, nipping at the edge of the bandage to tighten it. The pain shot up his arm, but dulled again. The salve was finally kicking in. He wouldn't know for a long time if there would be more damage to the nerves of his hands, or if he would scar, if he would be able to use the crossbow again…

But it was still worth any pain he suffered.

Held in his right hand was the picture frame, one he had taken from an old photo he had pushed into the box in his closet. It barely fit, meaning he had to trim the edges, but they were scorched anyway.

With care matching a mother’s tender touch, Daryl stepped towards the fireplace and slid around the photos, trying not to wince at the pressure against his burnt fingertips. Only once he cleared a place in the center did he place down the photo, keeping it far from the edge. He thought it had been safe where he had left it…

Only after he was sure it was properly stood up straight did he release it one finger at a time, as if it could fall apart if he was too hasty.

_ You're worth it, Daryl. I love you. _

The words circled through his head, following the drawl of the southern accent he could never forget, the same that would wake him up in the middle of the night, echo through the house…

Daryl swallowed hard, and stepped back. Eventually he found his way to the couch, laying down with care. Only once he was properly settled did he pull the blue plaid blanket from the back of the couch, where he would always rest it, and let it drape over his body.

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like he was in Rick's arms again.


	3. Vampires Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year, and the Winchester's have moved on, or so they thought. After Bobby forwards an email of a clan of vampires near Senoia, Georgia, they find themselves on the doorstep of Daryl Dixon once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of two. The chapter was much too long to fit into one part, but we have the next chapter completed and ready!

“Pie makes everything better, Sammy,”

Sam grimaced, looking at his brother over the top of his computer, his fingers still busily typing at the keys. Dean was grinning from where he sat on the faded comforter of yet another motel room bed. “You’re going to get diabetes and die.”

Dean scowled back at his brother, and took a huge bite of the cherry pie. Speaking with a mouth full of gooey goodness, he mumbled, “No one has ever died from pie. It’s a scientific fact.”

Sam’s fingers typed even faster on the keys, and seconds later there was a triumphant grin on his face. “A man in Australia died during a pie eating contest. While eating pie.”

“What kind of pie?”

“Uh… Chili pie? Does it matter?

“Yes,” Dean nodded. “No one has ever died from  _ cherry _ pie.” Taking another huge bite, Dean closed his eyes and hummed in delight. “It’s  _ so _ good.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam went back to the article he’d been scanning that Bobby had sent him before they started talking about pie. “There’s been a few weird deaths in a little town in Georgia.” Sam turned the laptop around, and pointed at the screen. “Says they found the bodies of three known homeless men dumped in a ditch on the outskirts of town. All three drained of blood.”

Dean still had his eyes closed, and a blissful smile on his face.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, snapping his fingers at his brother, who jerked his eyes open and glared at Sam. “Can you pay attention for a minute, please? Put down the damn pie.”

Looking highly offended, Dean carefully sat the pie on the nightstand. “I’ll get back to you in a minute, gorgeous,” he said, winking at the still massive slice sitting on the plate. “So, vampires in a town in Georgia. When do we leave?”

“The town is called Senoia. Why do I know that name…” Sam’s forehead creased as he thought. “Isn’t that where Dare lived? Somewhere around there?”

Dean shrugged. “I’ve blocked that whole night out of my memory. That porch sucked, and I got mosquito bites all over. Even on my ass.”

“I thought you blocked it out,” Sam pointed out with a smirk.

“Shut up.” Dean heaved himself up from the bed, lifting his arms above his head, and stretching languidly. “If they found three bodies, probably means there’s more than one or two. A nest. Might need backup.”

Sam looked like he was about to faint, staring at his brother with wide eyes. “ _ You, _ Mr I-can-do-anything-all-on-my-own, wants to call in backup? Are you high?”

Dean glared over at Sam. “I know when to call for backup. You’re just a pussy, and always want to call when we don’t  _ need _ help.” Dean laughed. “Nerd.”

Choosing to remain silent, Sam shot a bitchy look Dean’s way. “You want to call Bobby, or should I? He’ll know if there’s any hunters in the area.”

“Go ahead. I need to take a shower.” Dean wiggled his eyebrows at Sam, and reached for a towel. “Ignore any noise you hear.”

“Dude. Gross.”

Picking up his cell phone, Sam walked outside and dialed Bobby’s number as he leaned against the Impala.

_ “Hello.” _

“Bobby, hey. It’s Sam. I was wondering if you knew of any hunters around Atlanta? Dean and I think there’s a decent sized nest of vamps there from the article you sent us, and we’re going to need some help taking them all out.”

_ “Yeah, Sam, I know a few. One of the best I’ve ever seen lives around there actually. Daryl Dixon. I think I told you boys about him a few times. Dunno if he’ll help you though. Only hear from him about once a year. If I’m lucky.” _

“You may have told us a few stories,” Sam laughed, “If we need backup, it doesn’t hurt to go with the best. You got a number maybe? Worth a shot, at least.”

_ “Sure, kid, just a second.” _

Bobby set the phone down, and Sam could hear him rustling around. God only knew how he found anything in the mess he calls a desk, but he always knew just where everything was at.

_ “Sam, still there?” _

“Yeah, Bobby.” Sam glanced at the motel room door, wondering how long he was going to have to stay outside. He did  _ not _ need to hear Dean’s sex noises. He shuddered. Bobby rattled off a number, and Sam quickly memorized it. “Thanks.”

_ “Not a problem. You keep in touch, hear? And tell Daryl to call me more than once a year, would you? Son of a bitch is so close mouthed, he wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.” _

“Will do, Bobby. Thanks again.”

Hanging up the phone, Sam paced in circles around the Impala for a few minutes before bringing the phone back up and punching in Daryl’s number. After several rings, a beep sounded and then a recorded message said, “ _ Fuck off. _ ” Sam laughed loudly, then hung up. He’d had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who Daryl was. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he went back inside the motel room. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean.

Though he could have waited a few minutes, as the sounds that met his ears almost immediately had him step back out the door. Oops.

“God damn it, Dean,  _ no  _ shame,” Sam huffed to himself, trying to fan away the crimson that colored his cheeks. Then again, it wasn't as if they had a lot of time apart. Sometimes Dean just needed to… 'Clean the pipes’ as he claimed.

Leaning his shoulders against the closed door, he let out a sigh. His eyes focused down at his phone, turning it in his hand. This would be an experience to say the least. The Winchester brothers knocking on the door of the man they had left with burns up his arm.

He wondered if the threat of Dean getting a bullet through the head if he stepped inside still stood. Maybe Dare- or rather,  _ Daryl,  _ didn't even remember them.

Maybe he wasn't even alive. It had been about a year, after all. And it wasn't an exaggeration that Daryl seemed to be at the ends of his sanity.

It wouldn't hurt if he checked one more time…

Clearing his throat, he tapped the number back into the phone and held it to his ear. Four more rings, then the beep, and a few moments later,  _ “Fuck off.”  _ The phone number was still active, so the death idea was unlikely.

Knowing better than to leave a message and give Daryl a chance to run away to some hideout and shoot them in the back, he snapped the phone closed. Well, he had killed some time. That should be enough time for Dean to finish.

Turning back to the door, he gave a light knock before opening it. This time, no obscene noises. Just Dean standing in front of the sink, a towel around his waist and the other drying off his still wet body.

“I got us a hit. And I think you're gonna like it,” Sam called, a grin upon his face. He was going to  _ love  _ to see Dean's face when his little brain put the pieces together…

“Who?” Dean asked, his voice slightly raspy. A shudder ran up Sam's spine, his stomach churning but he held back the obvious, ‘ _ What the hell did you do in there?’ _

“You remember Dad and Bobby telling us about that hunter that went nuts? The one that kinda fell off the face of the Earth?”

Dean blinked, turning his head around to look back at Sam. His brows furrowed a little bit, either trying to figure out who he was talking about or why it mattered. “The, uh… Dickens guy.”

“Dixon. I know it's hard to not think about dick all the time, but focus.” Dean only smirked, rolling his eyes. “His name is Daryl Dixon. He lives down south, super close to Senoia.”

“...mkay. So let's go.”

Sam blinked. Dean really was dense. “...we're going to see  _ Daryl _ . Do you remember who else was down there?”

“Yeah, Dare. We're not seeing him, by the way, he's gonna skin me.” Dean shuddered, his hands twisting a bit into the towel as he set it down onto the counter.

Okay, so maybe Sam wasn't being specific enough. “Well, I got a number. You wanna call him quick? Seduce him into helping?” Sam chuckled, holding out the phone with the number ready punched in. Taking this as a challenge to show off his charm that seemed to affect both genders, Dean resumed his smirking and snatched it out of his hands.

“How do you manage to find a date, baby brother?” Dean chastised him. Giving Sam a wink as he prepared to smooth talk his way into getting a hunting partner, he held it to his ear.

Sam timed out the rings. One… Two… three… four… beep.

_ “Fuck off.” _

Dean blanched, and threw the phone down on the bed. His entire face had gone pale and he was already shaking his head. “No fucking way.”

“What’s the matter, Dean? Cat got your tongue?”

“Dude, he said he’d kill me if I ever stepped into his house again.” Dean shook his head again. “Call Bobby back, ask if there’s anyone else.”

Sam walked over to the bed, picked up the phone, and held it out to Dean. “There’s no one else.”

Shaking his head to the point where Sam worried he would give himself vertigo, Dean backed into the bathroom, and slammed the door. “No way, Sam! No way I’m going anywhere  _ near _ that guy ever again!”

* * *

Four hours later, Sam and Dean were in the Impala, pulling into a motel on the outskirts of Senoia. Dean was still grumbling under his breath in the driver’s seat.

“I’m not going, Sam, and you can’t make me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean. “What are you, six? I don’t care, wait here then.”

Dean got out of the car, barely restraining himself from slamming the door, but he didn’t want to hurt his baby. Rubbing an affectionate hand across the roof of the car, he headed inside to get them a room. When he came back out, Sam was in the driver’s seat, holding his hand out, expectantly.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Keys, Dean. You know, so I can go talk to Daryl. Since he won’t answer his phone.”

Holding the keys a few inches above Sam’s hand, Dean looked intently at his brother. “If you put one  _ scratch _ on my baby, I will hurt you. Badly.”

Sam rolled his eyes. His brother loved this car more than he did most people they knew. Sort of like another guy they’d met… “Fine, Dean, I won’t get wasted and drive through the streets in your precious, precious car. Eating chili fries. And drinking a lidless milkshake.” Sam was having trouble holding in his laughter at the look on Dean’s face. Sighing, Sam shook his hand underneath the keys. “I’m only kidding, and you know it. C’mon.”

Dean took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before setting the keys in Sam’s outstretched palm, and letting out a long sigh. “Not fucking funny.”

“It was funny,” Sam smirked.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

* * *

Pulling out in front of Daryl’s cabin about 30 minutes later, Sam looked around. Everything was exactly the same, down to the faded stone steps that lead to the front door, and the worn out truck parked in the driveway.

Opening the car door, and stepping out, he headed to the porch. Before he could get more than three steps away from the Impala, he heard a voice from behind him. “What the  _ fuck _ are you doin’ here, asshole?”

Raising his hands up and out from his sides, Sam turned around. Dare, or rather, Daryl Dixon. Holding that crossbow, and wearing the same leather vest, if Sam wasn’t mistaken. His eyes were just as hard as they had been a year ago, but the shadows beneath them had grown, and he appeared more feral than before.

He could just barely see him from the shadows of the treeline, but it was hard to ignore the fact that Daryl had his crossbow lifted, moments away from shooting a bolt into him. Sam swallowed, trying to not stare at the end of the bolt. “Bobby Singer gave me your number, but you didn’t answer.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t that tell you somethin’? Don’t wanna be bothered.” He lowered the crossbow, and turned around, heading back into the trees. A last, “Fuck off,” was thrown over his shoulder as he disappeared into the treeline.

Gritting his teeth together, Sam couldn't stop himself from rushing forward, sliding around the Impala. He knew this wasn't going to end well, but he had to find a way to convince Daryl to at least hear him out.

“Daryl!” he called after him, wincing as it spooked some birds out of the trees. Daryl was certainly going to be mad for scaring all the prey away, but it was pretty likely he had enough jerky to keep him fed for months.

As soon as he had rushed into the woods, though, Sam saw the downside of his plan. He had just tried to chase the man into woods that he probably knew better than the back of his hand. Groaning softly, he backed himself back out of the trees.

Okay, new idea. Chances were that Daryl would not go far, not when he had left his cabin alone for Sam to try to break into and… touch his blanket again.

“Daryl, there's a nest of vampires nearby. They're already killing in Senoia. Already piled up three bodies like it was nothing, and it's only going to get worse.”

No response. Like literally, it was like he had been talking to the trees. Which… he probably was.

Sighing, Sam let himself lean against the Impala. “And you know they're out there. No  _ way  _ a hunter like you didn’t notice them or track them. Why aren't you doing anything?”

Maybe that would help. Provoke the man who could bring down a running werewolf from thirty yards away. He could have sworn that he heard a branch snap, but nothing else.

“Okay, uh… I'll let you think about it. But I'm not leaving until I have an answer. We can't take down the nest without you.” Buttering up? Maybe?

Nope.

Sam let out a groan, then shook his head. Now he had some time to kill… Glancing around, he took in a better view of the cabin. It was true that almost nothing had changed, just that the leaves were a little greener for this time of year.

The windows were still covered, the motorcycle parked next to the porch, and the truck had been there so long that the grass was dead beneath it. There were even weeds entangled around the tires, and there was the slightest hint of rust that wasn't there before, almost like Daryl had left it to rot.

Stepping towards the pick-up and acutely aware that a bolt could sink into him at any moment, he wiped away the dirt from the driver's side window.

The interior was old but in good condition. There was a bottle of beer on the passenger's side floor, and some weird keychains attached to the rearview mirror. The arm rest had been popped open, revealing tapes with titles written onto them.

But what made him freeze was when he looked at the passenger's side.

While the interior was a leather brown, the seat was  _ red. Rustic. Bloody. _ Dried blood coated the seat.

“Why the fuck do you need my help. Don't hunt no more.”

The voice made Sam jump, whipping around to see Daryl standing right behind him. His eyes were sharp and deadly, and the crossbow was still held tight in his grasp, but this time at his side.

Sam held a hand to his heart dramatically, and chuckled. “How are you so quiet, man?” He glanced at the gravel covered drive. “Especially on all this.” He gestured to the gravel.

“Didn’t answer my question.”

Gulping, Sam took a deep breath, and began. “From what we can tell, there’s more than one or two vamps. Me and Dean can handle a lot, but all the signs are pointing to a pretty big nest. On the way out I did some more research. There’s been 12 bodies found within a 50 mile radius. This forest is the bullseye. That’s not something we want to go into with just each other for backup.”

Daryl grunted, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder. “Still don’t know why it’s gotta be me that helps you. Plenty of other hunters out there.” Steel blue eyes locked with Sam’s own hazel.

“You know this area better than anyone else we could find.” Sam grinned, trying out a little bit of that flattery now that they were face to face. “Plus it’d be pretty cool to hunt with  _ the _ Daryl Dixon.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed even further, if that were even possible, but Sam thought he saw a hint of red on his cheeks before Daryl looked away.

“Damn Bobby.” Daryl huffed softly, then glared at Sam. “Suppose your brother’s here, too.”

Sam nodded, wondering if that would be a deal breaker.

Daryl stared off into the distance for a few moments, seeming to be waging a small war in his head until he let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll help you. But, you need to do whatever the fuck I say, whenever the fuck I say it.” Daryl turned and walked up to his front door. “Bring your brother out here, and we’ll talk. Figure out what to do.” Then, he walked through his door, shutting it behind him.

Grinning, Sam got back into the Impala and sped back to town. Dean wasn’t gonna believe this.

Pulling up in front of their room, Sam was barrelling through the door in seconds. All excited puppy, no grace in his movement at all. “Dean!”

“I’m right here, dude, no need to yell,” Dean said from his position stretched out on the bed. His face was flushed, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“What the hell, Dean? Again?”

Dean flushed, the freckles on his face standing out in stark relief. He looked away from Sam, and gestured to the TV. “They had one of my favorites,” he said sheepishly. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Whatever, I don’t want to know.” Sam paused, leveling a glare at his brother. “You didn’t do it on my bed, right?”

Dean grinned, his face a picture of innocence. “Of course not, Sammy. I’d never do that to you."

Sam groaned, scrubbing both hands across his face. “Oh God, you did. I’m going to have to sleep in the car.”

“Nah, didn’t do it on your bed. Now, sit your ass down, and tell me what happened with Dixon.”

“He’s going to help us. We’re meeting him at his cabin, so get ready to go.” Sam grimaced. “Wash your hands.”

Dean let out a groan, and Sam wasn't quite sure if it was about meeting Daryl or about having to wash his hands. “Fuckin  _ fine… _ ” Dean grumbled softly, slowly pushing himself off of the bed. Of course getting his hands all over the bed.

Once again he wondered if they were truly brothers at all.

“Hurry up,” Sam sighed, as he began to go through the bags placed on the table. They should bring something for Daryl to help sooth the tension, maybe some good liquor. Daryl looked like a liquor guy.

He listened to the sink turn on, and then the sound of Dean hopefully cleaning off his hands. Whether he used soap or not was something he wouldn't bother checking. The water turned back off moments later and his brother came out of the bathroom.

“Okay,  _ Mom _ , can I have my dessert now?” Dean teased, tossing the now used towel onto the bed. Telling Dean to clean up after himself was worthless, and so Sam just rolled his eyes and fished out a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

He pushed the bottle into Dean's chest. “That's your apology present. Maybe then he won't stick a bolt in your ass,” Sam said, trying hard to not roll his eyes at Dean's mutters and whines.

Grabbing the bag and tossing the keys to Dean, because there would be no way he could drive Baby again, he pushed open the door. “Try to behave. Don't touch the pictures.”

“Won't even touch the  _ ground _ .”

* * *

It took a bit longer this time, as Dean has driven as slow as possible to avoid scratching his darling. Eventually their tires crunched against the gravel, and Sam craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the archer.

Sure enough he was sitting on the porch, wiping down the crossbow that he suspected Daryl took to bed with him. Hopefully he didn't have the same…  _ tendencies  _ Dean had when he was left alone.

It was lonely in the forest, though…

Dean turned off the car, but seemed to be quite hesitant to get out. “Sam,” Dean muttered softly, catching his brother’s attention.

Dean rested his arm against the window, then gave a subtle twitch of his fingers towards the archer. “His arms.” The voice was hushed this time, strained.

At first Sam was confused, glancing back to Daryl questioning. The other man didn't lift his head, still focused upon the bow and bolts. Narrowing his eyes at Dean, it took him a few moments to understand what his brother was talking about.

The scars.

He could make out the burn scars across Daryl's left arm, following them up to his elbow with ease. There were of various severities, with his fingers seemingly suffering the worst.

While it appeared the scars were starting to fade, it made it no easier to look at them, though he was slightly surprised he hadn't noticed them before. Sam swallowed, a lump building up his throat.

“You better hope he takes well to Jack Daniels,” Sam murmured in reply, before popping open the door and stepping out. There was no use in trying to stall this, which is why he stepped towards Daryl, who glanced up, and still had eyes so narrow he could barely see the blue.

It would probably kill Daryl to smile.

Dean hung back while Sam made his way up to the porch, sitting down on a bench across from Daryl. Dean couldn’t help but stare at the man’s arms and shoulders. He was almost positive he’d never seen anyone with shoulders that wide. How the fuck did he not remember them being that wide?

Clutching the bottle of Jack, Dean got out of the car, and walked up to Daryl. Holding out the half empty bottle, he said, “Here. Hope you like whiskey.”

Daryl looked down at the bottle and scowled, looking away in partial disgust. “No thanks. Got some Macallan inside when I feel like a drink. Probably older than you.”

Dean’s face fell. “Oh. Uh. Well…” He looked to Sam, his eyes widened in desperation.

“We’re pretty much used to rotgut. Can’t usually afford more than that,” Sam laughed. “If you’re offering, I’d love to try some  _ good _ whiskey.”

“What the fuck did I say about you two touchin’ my stuff? Not happening.” Daryl glared up at Dean.

“Like I was the one that asked to drink your precious whiskey,” Dean muttered, sitting down beside Sam on the bench. Unscrewing the top of the Jack, he pressed it to his lips, taking several large gulps. “Smooth,” he rasped. “Just as good as the expensive stuff.”

Sam coughed, and Daryl swung cold eyes over to him. “Why don’t ya’ll quit fuckin’ around and get to the damn point. I got shit to do.”

“Right, the nest.” Sam rubbed his hands across his knees, he was unusually nervous around Daryl. Maybe it was the memory of one of the stories Bobby had told them. He was pretty sure it was exaggerated, but still.

Sixty vamps in three days. Even twenty, which was probably closer to the actual number, was impressive. “Before we talk about that, you mind if I ask you a question about something Bobby told us?”

Daryl stiffened, and hands that had been moving methodically across his crossbow, stilled. Bobby knew too god damn much, and he talked about more than he should. He grunted.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Sam cleared his throat. “Is it true that you killed sixty vamps in three days a few years back?”

“Nah, not true.” Daryl leaned forward and leaned his crossbow against the cabin wall. “It was werewolves. I think the actual number was sixty-one, but I didn’t count. Get your facts straight, asshole. Can we talk about the vamps now?”

Sam and Dean’s eyes widened.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed. “Is that even possible?”

“Look, I don’t wanna talk about that shit. Let’s just say I wasn’t in a very good place, and….” Daryl trailed off, staring down at the floor. His breath seemed to be caught in his throat for a moment before he gave a firm shake of his head as if trying to shake away the thoughts.

“Shit. I just wasn’t in a good place, alright? Drop it.” Daryl sighed, bringing his thumb up to his mouth and chewing on the skin by his nail.

“We get it. Sorry,” Sam said.

Dean nodded, and hung his head a bit. “Yeah, and I wanted to say again, I’m sorry about that pictu-”

Daryl growled, his teeth tugging on his own skin to the point that it nearly ripped. “Shut up. I ain’t talkin’ about that. At all. Got it?”

Dean jolted slightly in his seat, immediately avoiding Daryl’s eyes. The boundaries weren't budging. Don't talk about his past, or his things. Or about him.

He took another sip of the Jack, shivering as it went down. Had his mind been a bit clearer, he may have remembered that he needed to drive back to the motel. Maybe he would let Sam drive just this once.

“Got it,” Dean murmured, swallowing a bit hard.

Sam glanced back to Dean for a moment, feeling his stomach churning. They needed to get through this as soon as they could. Clearing his throat, he finally glanced back to Daryl. He was still chewing on his thumb, and he guessed it was a nervous tick.

“What we were hoping was scouting out their nest first, get an actual count. Then once we get that-”

“North six miles, east two, eighteen.”

Daryl had picked up a bolt at this point, his free hand carefully sliding up and down the thin shaft and his eyes looking it over for any sign of a flaw. He leaned against the railing of the porch, yet his body was too stiff to seem at ease.

Sam's jaw dropped, whatever sentence he was going to say now lost to the void of his mind. “...Wait, you know where they are? And you haven't… done anything?”

“Don’t hunt no more.” It was as if the conversation was now closed, and his thumb went back into his mouth. His teeth latched onto the skin beside the nail, already grinding away at it.

The brothers fell into silence, just staring at the archer who wouldn't look up from the bolt now resting in one hand. But unfortunately, the silence didn't last.

“You're letting a huge ass coven of vampires go  _ kill _ right outside your doorstep? Just because you're too pissy to hunt?” Dean growled, standing up from the bench and stepping up in front of Daryl. Sam reached out to pull him back to the bench failed as Dean wrenched his arm away.

Even when the stormy eyes snapped up to his face, tight with what could be murderous intent, Dean didn't miss a beat. “All those deaths are on you! 'Cause you're being too much of a coward!”

“ _ Dean!” _

“What?! You're gonna baby him 'cause his  _ feelings _ are hurt? Just gonna let him sulk?” Dean hissed back, glaring at his brother before meeting the eyes of the archer again.

“You should be  _ ashamed _ to call yourself a fucking hunter!”

Daryl lunged. He had Dean pressed against the door of his cabin before Dean could so much as breathe, and a massive combat knife against his throat in seconds. His voice was low, and cold when he spoke. “That’s why I don’t call myself a hunter no more, you arrogant piece of shit. Now who the fuck do you think sent Bobby that email, that he sent to Sam, huh? Got you fuckers down here?”

Daryl pressed the knife harder against Dean’s throat, drawing a small line of blood. “Might wanna check your facts before you get all high and goddamned mighty.” He let Dean go, and pushed him down to the stairs of the porch, with Dean barely catching himself on the railing. He ignored Sam completely, even though he had his gun out and pointed directly at Daryl.

Daryl raked a hand through his hair, cursing softly. He looked at the sky for a moment, forcing his hand from his hair before it instinctively latched onto his wrist. His thumb pressed against the surface of the silver watch, clutching it as if it was his lifeline. The archer took in a shaky breath, let it out, and turned back to Sam and Dean. “Sun’s gonna set in about an hour. Get the fuck out. Come back in the morning. We’ll go from there.”

Dean pressed a hand to the stinging line on his throat, still beading up with small droplets of blood. He visibly swallowed, eyes wide before he forced himself to scowl. “Fuck. You’re a crazy bastard, you know that?”

Daryl laughed, but Dean couldn’t hear any humor at all in the sound. “So I’ve been told.” He looked up at Dean, deeply buried pain shining from his eyes for a split second. “By a better man than you’ll ever be.”

“Thanks a lot,” Dean grumbled, still rubbing at the bleeding cut. “Asshole.”

Sam looked down at the floor, feeling oddly uncomfortable.

“Just fuckin’ go, would you?” Daryl sighed. “I don’t wanna look at you no more.”

Turning away from the brothers, Daryl grabbed his crossbow, and opened his door. Looking back over his shoulder before he shut the door, he said, “Daylight. Don’t be late.”

* * *

The next morning, when Sam and Dean pulled up to Daryl’s cabin, the sun was barely peeking over the tops of the trees. Crickets were still chirping all over the woods, and there was a fresh layer of dew on all the plants. The cuffs on Dean’s jeans were soaking wet by the time he’d knocked on the door of the cabin, and he hoped his offering of coffee would be received better than the whiskey.

Lifting his booted foot to kick at the bottom of the door, his hands were full of coffee after all, Dean nearly fell on his ass when the door abruptly opened.

Daryl grunted on the other side of the door, staring at the offering of coffee and took the cup Dean handed him. “This ain’t one of those fancy coffees is it? Damn waste of good beans, if you ask me.”

Dean shook his head. “Didn’t figure you’d be a fan. Black, one sugar.”

“Dunno why you had to put sugar in it, but alright.” Daryl pried the lid off, crushing it in his hand, and held the steaming cup up to his face, inhaling deeply. “Could’a been worse,” he said, after taking a deep gulp.

“Well, I’m so glad you fucking approve,” Dean snarked, his eyes narrowing.

Daryl turned up his usual glare a few notches, pleased when Dean dropped his eyes. “Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned away, hoping the sun shining in Daryl’s face would mask the slight blush that Dean was positive was on his face. Clearing his throat, he looked back at Daryl. “You ready to go?”

Daryl nodded, shouldering his crossbow, and striding past Dean. His head tilted back, downing the rest of the coffee in what seemed like seconds before crushing the paper cup and tossing it onto the gravel path. Walking over to his motorcycle, he strapped the bow onto the back, and straddled the bike.

“What, you’re not going to ride with us?” Sam asked, seconds before Dean was planning on opening his mouth to do the same.

Daryl gave Sam a, ‘Why the hell would I do that?’ look, and shook his head. “I’ll ride the bike. We’re gonna have to walk a bit through the woods, too.” He eyed the boys up and down. “You look like fuckin’ lumberjacks, but I guess it works. Next time, wear something a little bit less… plaid. It’ll blend better in the trees and shit.”

Daryl watched Sam and Dean get in their car, and started up his bike. The deep rumble of the engine rolled through his body in waves. He revved the engine a bit, and pulled out of his driveway, deliberately spinning his back tire just to watch Dean’s face turn red as little bits of gravel pinged into his car.

Speeding down the road, Daryl grinned. This was just about the only thing that made him smile nowadays. Being in the house only reminded him of Rick, and being in the woods was the same. He was forever running into a tree that they’d fucked against, or the clearing that Rick had set up that ridiculously cheesy picnic. The lake… Everywhere he turned, there was another memory. There were a few on his motorcycle as well. Memories that Daryl wouldn’t soon forget, but it was different when he was driving, somehow. More free.

All too soon, Daryl slowed to a halt, pulling onto a tiny, almost invisible dirt path. Hopping off his bike, he started rummaging through his saddlebags, ignoring the roar of the Impala’s motor as it pulled up behind him, and the slamming door.

“What the fuck is your problem, man!” Dean yelled, grabbing Daryl by the shoulder and pushing him. “Throwing gravel at my car on fucking purpose now? I said I was sorry for what happened, can’t you just let it fucking go? Jesus Christ!”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Dean no warning before he drew back his fist, and punched him in the mouth. Looming over the other man now struggling in the dirt, Daryl snarled, “Put your hands on me again without my permission, and I’ll beat your ass into the ground. We clear?”

Sam ran up, always trying to be the peacemaker. “Hey, hey, hey, guys, calm down.”

Dean hauled himself up, and spit blood onto the ground. His smile was bloody, and all teeth. “Yeah,” he said, wiping a hand across his split lip. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

With a scowl still across Daryl's lips, he turned to his motorcycle and carefully unhooked his crossbow, slinging it over his shoulders. Next, he shifted through the saddlebags before taking out a few vials of dead man's blood. He had made a quick trip to the hospital after Sam and Dean had left. He had more in his bag, but the vials made it much easier to coat the tips of his bolts.

He put each of them in his pants pocket, then handed a few to Sam and Dean. The bag over his shoulders mostly held necessary food and water. Some ammunition for the wrapped Colt Python he carefully unlocked from the container, before slipping it inside his vest. It felt cold against his skin, having been far too long since he had picked it up with the intention of using it.

“We got a mile to walk. We're gonna have to set up some sorta camp for our shit, don't wanna get lugged down. Once we got eyes on 'em, I'll start shooting some bolts into them. Slow them down, make it easier to kill. Gonna have to focus on speed to keep from getting neck-high in vamp.”

Daryl glanced to the boys from the corner of his eyes, and he couldn't help but watch the blood travel down from Dean's lips, dribbling down his chin. The fact that he had knocked him on his ass yet he stood straight back up was interesting. Maybe John had raised his boys right after all.

Counting the bolts hooked onto his crossbow, he finally stood back up straight. “If it gets dark before we get a clean angle, we're done. Not gonna tangle with vamps in the dark. About as bad as werewolves.” He sent a light smirk towards Dean and Sam, a reminder of their failed attempt to hunt down a single wolf.

Pulling the crossbow back into his grasp once he was sure he had everything they needed, he gave them a curt nod. “Stay on my ass. Ain't gonna fish you out of the woods if you wander off.”

Dean had muttered something under his breath but Daryl ignored it. The squabbling would have to wait, at least until they were done. Hopefully he wouldn't need to do any of the killing, just wound them with enough dead man's blood to make them practically helpless.

Turning away from the Winchester brothers, he stepped onto the small trail, not bothering to look behind him to see if they were indeed following.

Their pace was slow, mostly by Daryl's own wishes. He needed time to familiarize him with the sounds of this particular section. There was a reason to why neither he nor Rick traveled down here.

Sam and Dean were talking softly behind him, which he tuned out as best as he could. There was nearly no stealth in their steps, and every time they would snap a branch, Daryl would flinch. Even Rick would never be so careless.

Every now and then he would stop, follow a few tracks, then lead them back to the trail. There had certainly been a ton of traffic, and it seemed the coven was getting antsy. For them to be acting up now…

“Here.”

Daryl stopped suddenly, shouldering his crossbow. “We set up here. Put your shit down, cover it up, bury it if you gotta. If shit goes down, we come back here.”

There was always a meeting site, where on the off chance they would be separated, they would find their way back to a specific location. Daryl soon had to remind himself that the brothers weren't going to be able to find their way back, causing him to sigh.

Daryl pointed to the tree he stood next to, his finger trailing it all the way up to the top. “Tallest oak for two miles. 's got scratches. Bear went through.” He tapped against the thin marks just at eye level. It was a tiny one, adolescent at best. Maybe black bear.

As he flicked his eyes back to the brothers, he was surprised to see them already setting down their bags beside the oak, doing their best to cover it up with leaves, sticks, whatever they could find. Daryl didn't leave his back. It had what they needed, not the extra shit they probably brought.

Once they had stood back up, Daryl glanced up to the sky. Not even noon yet. They were making good time. “Don't wanna hear a peep outta you both from now on unless it's important shit,” he warned carefully, trying to keep his voice from dropping to a growl.

They were deep within the vamp’s territory, now. The only way this would work was if they could keep  _ quiet. _

An hour or so of walking through through the woods, silently in Daryl’s case, less silently in Sam and Dean’s, Daryl held up his hand, and motioned for them to stop. Ducking into a crouch, he beckoned them forward, speaking softly when they obeyed. “The house is right past this strand of trees. Sam, you go around the corner about 20 yards. There’s a big sycamore tree you can get up into. The first branch is low enough for you to climb it. You’ll have a perfect view of the back door. Meet back here in three hours.”

Sam nodded, and moved off into the trees, his plaid shirt sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Alright, Dean. You go the opposite way. There’ll be a little shed about fifteen feet from the porch, sort of cattycorner. Get in behind it. The thing has plenty of holes, so you’ll have a decent view of most of the porch, and the whole left side of the house. Back here in three hours.”

Dean nodded as well, his face serious, and he moved off without a word.

Daryl moved forward, his eyes on an oak tree that had probably been around when his great grandfather was still in short pants. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder and began to climb. He’d watch for two hours, then, he’d get a little bit closer.

* * *

Two hours later, Daryl stretched out his cramping shoulders, and made his way down the tree. Walking over to Sam’s position, he whistled, then cursed softly under his breath. He hadn’t taught either of them the signals. Despite not being sure of what it was, he heard Sam rustling around in the branches above him. A softly whispered, “Daryl?” came from about two feet to his left and six feet up.

“Yeah. You stay put. I’m gonna go inside, and make sure we know what we’re dealing with. Don’t want any nasty surprises.”

Sam looked unsure. “I don’t know, Daryl. Alone? That the right call?”

Daryl nodded. “Yeah, I got it.” He whistled then, one low note, two high. “That means danger. If you hear that, you light outta here like your ass was on fire, got me? No exceptions.”

Nodding reluctantly, Sam agreed. “Alright.”

Making his way around to the shed where Dean was, Daryl whistled again. High, low, high.  _ Where are you? _ Dean instantly poked his head up from where he’d been lying, prone, along the side of the shed, leaves, and various forest detritus falling from his back. His eyes focused on Daryl, and they sharpened immediately, scanning the woods around them. “You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Daryl said, adjusting the strap on his crossbow. “I’m gonna head inside, check it out and make sure we know what we’re walking into.”

“What? No!” Dean whisper shouted. “You can’t go in there by yourself, that was the whole point of all of us being out here.”

Daryl huffed. “I’m the only one of us that can get in and out of the house without any of the vamps hearing me. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Ignoring the slightly loud whispers coming from Dean, he waved a hand, and made a cutting motion. Locking eyes with the other man, he raised a finger to his lips, and then flashed five fingers. He mouthed the words,  _ Stay here. _

His mouth turned down in a harsh frown, but Dean nodded. He held up five fingers, and then pointed at himself, and then the house. His eyes were hard, and Daryl knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he nodded.

Looking quickly at his surroundings, taking in the smallest details with a single glance, Daryl ran across the open expanse between the shed and the house. He pressed himself up against the wall, and looked above him. A picture window, most of the glass broken out, and with only a curtain blocking the light.

Mentally, he crossed that off as an entry option. Any room they deliberately blocked the sunlight from entering, was a room they used. He moved around the the front of the porch. Spotting an open window on the second story, he pulled himself up, and climbed the porch rail.

Back in the shed, Dean’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes were glued to Daryl’s biceps working as he pulled himself up to the second story. Lifting a hand he wiped it across the corner of his mouth, wincing as he passed over his split lip.

It seemed like too swift of a movement for Dean as he watched Daryl climb in through the window, disappearing from sight. Almost immediately, a cold stone dropped to the pit of his stomach. Daryl was now alone in a house that could be filled with vampires.

Though, in the two hours they had been watching, Dean had only seen the curtains move once from the picture window, and only one person had left the house. None had entered. That could mean that either they were all asleep, or this could be a wasted effort.

Or they could be waiting for them.

Swallowing, he lowered himself back down to the grass, sweeping the leaves to cover his body again. Five minutes was all he was going to give Daryl before he would be going in after him.

Reaching back into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. It was a little past four. Still a couple hours of sunlight. That meant that if they were going to attack, it would have to be damn soon.

Trying to ignore the ache in his chest as he stared at the phone almost obsessively, he watched the first minute tick away. Then the second. The third. Then the fourth-

Just past the fourth minute, he could see the curtains of the picture window shifting, a hand carefully parting the curtain. Jolting, he reached to his side for his gun. They could have already killed Daryl. Now they were going to find the rest of them.

Just as he leveled his gun at the twitching curtain, though, he managed to catch sight of a broad shoulder slipping between the curtains, followed by the ragged mop of brown hair. Only once he saw the tattered wings and the crossbow hauled across his back did Dean finally let out a breath of relief. Daryl was okay.

Well of course he was okay. Why did he care? Daryl could take care of himself.

Daryl’s head darted back and forth before he swung himself out of the window, careful to avoid the sharp glass and land as silently onto the grass as he could.

Feeling the weight lifting from his shoulders, he sat himself up just as Daryl darted across the stretch. Already, though, he could see Daryl making a cutting motion across his throat.

The plan was off.

“Move slow. Keep your front to the house. Back out to the trees,” was the soft command from Daryl, just as he turned to look back at the house. He had crouched down into the shadows cast by the shed, to the point that it seemed like he belonged there.

Opening his mouth to ask what was going on, Dean was met with a stern warning look. No talking until they got out.

Biting back his words, Dean pulled himself to a crouch and tried not to wince at his stiffened body complaining. Doing as Daryl said, they backed up slowly. Daryl had his crossbow pointed at the window, while Dean aimed his gun at the front door. Only once they had backed into the shadows did Daryl finally lower his weapon.

“Back to the oak.”

Dean turned and watched as Daryl slipped into the cover of the shadows, heading to the opposite side where Sam was stationed. Trying to calm the adrenaline that had started flowing through his veins, and the rapid heartbeat, he cast one more glance at the house before turning away.

* * *

The walk back was painfully awkward. All Daryl had said was that there weren't enough to make an attack worth the effort. Anything Dean or Sam tried to say was quick to be ignored.

They picked up their bags and walked back down the trail, to where the motorcycles and Impala awaited their return. Daryl was already strapping down the bow and his bag until Dean stepped closer.

“Go back to the cabin. Gonna have to wait until morning. Try to catch them early enough that they just came back from huntin’.”

Daryl was already straddling the motorcycle as he was speaking, turning on the engine. There was no room for talking or for arguing, since Daryl had already pulled himself back onto the road. It left Dean and Sam just looking at each other, unsure how to react to this failed attempt. Was Daryl happy they didn't attack? Upset? Sometimes it was hard to read the man at all.

They shared a shrug and climbed into the Impala, driving off before Daryl could get too far.

Turning his bike in the direction of home, Daryl sighed. Only three vamps inside, one of them obviously freshly turned. Just a fucking kid, maybe 16. There had been two dead bodies, already drained. They probably suffered the entire time. Multiple, overlapping bite marks pointed to them being drained slowly over time. These fuckers needed to be stopped. Soon.

Twenty minutes later, Daryl pulled into the familiar gravel drive, taking care to not let his tires spray any gravel towards Dean’s car. Everything else aside, it was a beautiful machine.

If Rick were here, he’d probably have had an orgasm just looking at it. Daryl smiled softly, and made a mental note to go and check on Rick’s car in the garage. That man and his old car obsession. If it had wheels and was made before 1970, Rick was all over it. Didn’t know anything about the engine, or how to fix it, but he loved them all the same.

He turned his head and watched the Impala park up next to Rick’s old truck. The brothers hopped out almost in sync, and Daryl felt a flare of pain in his chest at the sight. He and Rick had been like that. Daryl looked away, a small lump building in his throat.

“So, what’s the deal, man?” Dean asked. “Why’d we leave?”

Daryl cleared his throat, still avoiding looking anywhere near the two of them. His hand twitched, but he fought the urge to bite down on his thumb.

“Wasn’t no one there ‘cept for a freshly turned teenager, and two not much older to watch the place. The rest must’a gone out huntin’ somewhere.” Getting off his bike, he opened the saddlebags, and pulled out the leather wrapped Colt, stowing it safely away in his vest pocket.

Looking back up at Sam and Dean, he jerked his head towards his cabin. “Might as well c’mon inside. We got shit to talk about, and gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow. No sense in driving all the way back to town.”

Daryl was halfway up the steps when he turned around, and glared at them both. “Rule is still the same.” He scowled directly at Dean this time. “Keep your hands off my shit.”

Dean lifted his hands, as if trying to pass off as innocent which only earned him another growl. “Not gonna hesitate to throw you out again,” he threatened, before turning his way back to the front door.

Opening the oak door, he only held it just long enough for Sam to catch before stepping inside and turning on the light. They seemed to be dimmer this time, as if the bulbs were starting to die, or he was intentionally keeping them low.

The light still reflected across the face of the watch, catching Dean's eye. The glass seemed to be cracked, fracturing the reflecting light. The crossbow was still hanging down from his hand, only to be carefully set down on a counter. Dean didn’t doubt that there was a designated place to hang his precious weapon, but Daryl seemed to want it close just in case he needed to shoot Dean in the ass.

Dean followed Sam inside, closing the door behind them. He couldn't help but notice the amount of locks on the door, frowning slightly. What was Daryl trying to keep out so badly?

“Got some leftover stew if you're hungry,” Daryl grunted from where he had stepped into the connecting kitchen. Dean heard cabinet doors opening and closing, followed by what sounded like a fridge.

Dean swallowed, a lump in his stomach. He wasn't quite sure he would be willing to put whatever Daryl made in his stomach, but Sam had already opened his mouth. “Sounds great. Thank you,” he said, a warm smile on his face.

A sharp elbow jabbed into Sam’s side, which he quickly cussed at his brother for. “God damn it, Dean,” he hissed under his breath, pushing his brother away.

If Daryl was listening to the brotherly squabble, he didn't give a hint to it as he worked in the kitchen. There was an opening through the wall, almost like a window inside the kitchen. It was slightly enchanting to watch this beast of a man taking out spices and random jars, busying himself with the stove. Maybe he really did know how to cook.

He must, if he had been surviving this long on his own. How many ways could he possibly make deer into a meal without just grilling it?

Glancing back at Sam, Dean couldn't help but give a shrug. It would probably take some time for Daryl to finish making the stew, so he stepped back into the living room.

Nothing had changed. Even the blanket was laid in the exact spot where Daryl had put it in the first place. The armchair seemed to have collected more dust, but the pictures on the wall were unchanged, and the floor was still spotless.

But the pictures on the mantle… Dean could see the charred picture in a new frame, placed towards the front and center. His stomach churned violently, staring at the edges that were a crisp black.

Daryl had risked his arms to save that picture. Or rather, to save the man within it.

Sam had already carefully sat down onto the couch, being careful to not touch the blanket they already knew was off limits. Dean eyed the armchair, as it looked rather plush and comfortable, but… the dust made it seem like it had been unused for at least several months. Would that mean it was off limits too?

Dean avoided the chair, taking a seat next to Sam on the couch. Just to be safe. He nudged his brother and nodded at the chair. Silently asking his opinion.

“Does it matter?” he whispered, his eyes wide. “We know the couch is fine.  _ Don’t _ touch anything else.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean made himself more comfortable on the leather couch. The damn thing was downright plush. Dean closed his eyes, and let out a happy sigh as he wiggled his hips to settle more deeply into the cushion.

Several minutes later, a mouthwatering aroma started drifting out of the kitchen. Dean lifted his head into the air, sniffing loudly. “Holy hell, Sammy. That smells amazing.”

“It really does,” Sam agreed.

Daryl walked out of the kitchen then, wiping his hands on his jeans. “S’ready. Come eat.”

The brothers stood up from the couch, and made their way to the small kitchen table. There were three bowls set out, and a platter of biscuits in the center of the table.

“Fucking awesome,” Dean grinned, taking a seat, and reaching out for a biscuit. “Pillsbury, right? Their biscuits are great.”

Daryl scoffed. “The day I’m too lazy to make my own is the day I’ll stop eating biscuits.”

Dean looked at the biscuit in his hand, and took an enormous bite. “Oh my God,” he moaned. “This is the best fucking thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

Sam snorted. “I bet there are a few people who’d be disappointed to hear you say that.

“Don’t ruin this moment for me, Sam,” Dean said, reaching out for another biscuit, having jammed the other one into his mouth almost whole.

Daryl smirked, grabbing one for himself, and dipping it into the stew, humming quietly to himself as he ate it. The biscuit recipe belonged to Rick’s mother. She’d taught Rick how to make them when he was a little boy, and Rick had taught Daryl. That had been an extremely enjoyable afternoon. By the time they were through, there was more flour on the floor and on various body parts than in the biscuits.

Daryl smiled. Not that Sam and Dean would realize it. His version of a smile was only a small quirk at the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t smiled for real in six years.

Following Daryl’s lead, Dean dunked his biscuit into the stew, a loud groan coming out of his mouth when he bit into it. “You have to teach me how to make this. I’ll beg if I have to,” Dean said, around another giant mouthful of food.

Daryl raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t had anyone beg me for something in years. Might be an interesting night after all.” Lowering his head, Daryl focused on the food in front of him, periodically sneaking small glimpses at Dean. His obvious enjoyment of Daryl’s food started a small curl of something warm to ignite in his body.

“What kind of meat is this? Beef? I know it’s not chicken. Deer?” Sam asked.

“Squirrel,” Daryl said, taking another bite.

Dean’s spoon clattered to the tabletop. “Excuse me? Squirrel? I’m eating squirrel? Sammy, I’m eating squirrel,” Dean said, his wide eyes locked on his nearly empty bowl.

Sam shrugged, taking another bite. “Who cares. Tastes good.”

Daryl huffed, blowing his bangs away from his eyes, and his lips tilted up again. If they liked his stew they couldn’t be all bad.

Dean still stared at his bowl, as if he was unsure whether he should be revolted or excited that he had just eaten a small furry creature that was most likely speared by a bolt. He decided on the latter, his voice dropping to an awe-filled whisper.

“Fucking badass.”

Daryl either snorted or choked on his food. He wasn't quite sure what the sound was that he made, but it was distracting enough to make the brothers look at him as if he lost his head.

He glanced up almost shyly, his eyes hiding beneath his bangs and hopefully hiding the slight blush. “What?” he grunted in an attempt to cover up the break in his stoic mask.

There was silence for a few moments as the brothers looked at each other, then back at Daryl. Then they laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh, making fun of Daryl that he was used to. It was… Warm.

“What kind of a sound was  _ that?  _ You gonna live, Daryl?” Dean laughed, tilting his head to the side as he looked back at Daryl, grinning. All Daryl could look at was the split in his lip, then his green eyes, and the warmth curled deeper.

God damn it.

Not able to suppress his chuckle, Daryl lowered his head again. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but it was light, almost teasing. He soon pushed a spoonful of stew into his mouth as an excuse to end the embarrassing conversation, but Sam and Dean just chuckled.

Eventually they turned back to their own food, falling into light chatter. Dean asked how many squirrels it took to make the stew, Daryl said at least six for a good pot full. Squirrels didn't exactly have a lot of meat on them.

Sam asked how the hell he could shoot a squirrel, and he shrugged. Dean asked Sam how Daryl could  _ not  _ hit a squirrel. Then came the argument on whether Daryl could hit something as small as a sparrow.

Daryl just listened to their bickering, unable to hide his smirk. The boys weren't that bad after all. They just needed something to keep their hands busy and not touching his shit.

Dean was finished first, unsurprisingly, and stood up from his chair. “Hey, got a bathroom?” he asked, as if he expected Daryl to say no, that there was a hole in the ground outside.

“Down the hall, second door on the left. I guess you can touch stuff in there. Just… don't break my shit.”

Dean snorted, abandoning the table. Daryl couldn't help but think it would be a bad idea to let Dean wander around his house, but as long as he stayed out of his bedroom…

Sam huffed, reaching out and picking up the empty bowl Dean had left behind. “He's a bit of a mess, I usually have to be his sitter.” Sam rolled his eyes, standing up and tucking his chair into the table neatly.

Daryl glanced over, slightly surprised that Sam had already polished off the stew as well. They actually liked it. Huh.

Daryl jerked his head over to the kitchen doorway, also getting to his feet. “I got shit to wash anyway, just drop it in the sink.”

“Oh no, you've been too kind already. I'll help wash up.” Sam grinned back at him, already grabbing Daryl's empty bowl. The archer let him, not about to deny a bit of help in the kitchen. Truth was that it had been weeks since he’d washed dishes. It was getting to the point that he was running out of bowls and plates.

There was a low whistle once Sam stepped into the kitchen. “Damn, I think you need to invest in a dishwasher.”

“Probably. Not gonna.”

Stepping into the kitchen to follow Sam, Daryl watched as he slowly emptied out one side of the sink, then started filling up the other side with water.

“Thanks,” Daryl said, looking anywhere but at Sam.

Sam smiled, liking this new side to Daryl quite a bit. “No problem.”

Once the sink was filled, Sam began to wash the dishes. Silverware in the water, saved for last, pots first, then plates, and glasses. He was drying the last pot, and handing it over to Daryl to put away, when he finally plucked up the nerve to ask Daryl a question.

“I uh… I was wondering if I could ask you a question. Maybe, pick your brain a little?”

Daryl set the pot inside his cupboard, and looked over at Sam. He had a pained look on his face just a moment before covering it up again. This was probably not going to be a pleasant conversation. “No guarantee I’ll answer, but go ahead and ask.”

Forcing down the lump in his throat, Sam focused on washing the plates in the sink. He barely allowed a moment of hesitation, then blurt out; “How much do you know about demon deals?”

Daryl’s eyes widened. “What the fuck you wanna know about those for?” he seemed to almost hiss, but mostly out of surprise.

“I just… I need to know if it’s possible to break one.”

Reaching out a hand, and placing it on Sam’s shoulder, Daryl dragged larger man back over to the kitchen table. Walking over to the cabinet, he took out two glasses, and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “I dunno about you, but I need a little help if we’re gonna have this conversation. Not my best scotch, but better’n that shit y'all brought last time.”

Sam laughed, tracing his fingers around the edge of the glass, before Daryl poured him two fingers worth. “Bobby calls it hunter’s helper. Guess that shows you how fucked up the job can be, huh?” Lifting the glass, Sam took a sip, relishing the burn.

“So, demon deals and how to break them.” Daryl paused, looking intently at Sam. “This for a friend, or for you?”

Sam took another gulp before he whispered, “Dean.”

Shock slammed through Daryl, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. “Why the fuck would your brother sell his goddamn soul?”

Raising suspiciously glassy eyes, Sam choked out, “Me. He saved me. It’s a pretty long story, and I really don’t come off good in it, so cliffnotes.” He took a deep breath, trying to ignore Daryl's narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.

“I was stabbed. In the spine. Died in the middle of an abandoned ghost town in Dean’s arms, and he made a deal to save me. Of course, the demon knew he was desperate, so instead of the normal ten years, she gave him one. Got about six months left to figure it all out, or Dean is going to go to hell.”

“Jesus,” Daryl said, the color draining from his face as he lifted the glass to take a much needed sip.

“I’m getting so desperate, I’m thinking about making my own deal.”

Daryl’s head snapped up. The eyes that sliced into Sam were so sharp they nearly cut him in half. “No. Don’t do that.” Daryl ran a shaky hand through his hair, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table.

Unbeknownst to Sam and Daryl, Dean stood just around the corner from the kitchen. His hands were balled up in fists that were clenched so tight, his nails were cutting bloody crescents into his palms. He debated going in there and telling them both to butt the fuck out, but something made him stop and listen. Maybe it was the way Daryl sucked in a heavy breath, tensing in his chair.

“Look Sam, I’ve been there. Before I say any more, you need to understand something. I never talk about this. Ever. Dunno why I’m even telling you.” Daryl’s eyes bored into Sam’s, his face impassive. “The man in all those pictures out there? His name was Rick. I met him when I was 17. He was 16.” Daryl laughed ruefully. “We fucking hated each other at first. I was such an idiot, and he wasn’t much better.”

“Sounds a lot like me and Dean sometimes. Not so much hate, but well, okay, maybe it’s not like me and Dean.”

“I should hope so. You’re brothers. Be sort of awkward if you started  _ fucking _ .”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure he had  _ suspected _ , but he had more thought of the idea of brothers. He also wasn't the one who had gotten a good look at the pictures like Dean had, though. Even as he opened his mouth to ask a question, Daryl cut him off.

“Somehow that hate turned into something else. About three months after we met, my brother was killed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was a werewolf. See, Rick’s family, as far back as they can remember, are hunters. If you believed the stories his dad told, they had a relative on the fuckin’ Mayflower.”

Daryl shook his head. “Whatever, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is, I did some pretty stupid shit, trying to figure out what killed Merle. I’ve always been a good tracker, and I didn’t trust the cops, so I went out to where it happened, and started looking.

“Followed the tracks a couple miles into the woods, and found a lot more than I was prepared to find. I would have died if it weren’t for Rick and his father. After that night, our relationship changed. And we were together for the next ten years.” Daryl lowered his head, his fingers going to the broken watch on his wrist and rubbing softly across its face.

“On May the 22nd, 2001, we were on a hunt. I was cocky. Thought nothing could get the jump on me, nothing could hurt me, or him.” Daryl raised pain filled eyes to Sam’s. “I’ve never been more wrong in my life, Sam. And he paid the price for my arrogance, and he bled out in my arms on the floor of a shitty abandoned house. That fucking shifter stabbed him with my own knife.”

“I’m so sorry, Daryl.” Sam reached across the table, patted Daryl’s hand twice, and withdrew it quickly. He was aware of how well the other man tolerated any physical contact. “I lost someone, too. Her name was Jessica. I was going to ask her to marry me, but she burned up on the ceiling of our bedroom. Demon.”

“So you’ll know what I mean when I say I went crazy after Rick died. I did some really fucking stupid things, including that werewolf story Bobby told ya’ll about. And, I had everything ready to summon a demon of my own, just to get Rick back.”

Sam winced slightly, swallowing. Daryl poured himself another glass before he continued.

“I didn’t do it, obviously. I had the match in my hand. All I had to do was strike it, and drop it into the bowl. But I started thinking, what would Rick say about that? Would he want me to die for him? The longer I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t do it. Couldn't even kill m’self. Didn't feel right, didn't deserve it yet.”

Daryl shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t want ten more years with Rick. I wanted 50. Anything less than that wouldn’t have been enough. So, I wrapped him in our sheets, and I gave him the hunter’s funeral he would have wanted.”

“That’s the reason you’re so particular about all your things,” Sam guessed. “The blanket, the chair, the pictures…” his eyes flicked to Daryl's wrist, where his fingers caressed slowly across the surface of the watch. “Your watch. His gun.”

Daryl nodded slowly, then took another drink. He dropped the glass back onto the table. “Yeah. That’s why.” His voice was a low rumble that seemed to get caught.

“I thought… if there was a god, and there was a heaven, I'd rather wait to be with him for however long we get than get ten more years and be taken away forever.” His fingers traced the rim of the glass, staring down at the grain of the table.

Daryl stayed silent, his eyes fogged over, and took in a shuddering breath. This was obviously hard on Daryl, and Sam was moments away from changing the subject when the archer cleared his throat.

“Know this is a bit late for you n’ Dean. Not sure why I'm talkin’ 'bout it at all. But there's gotta be a loophole in every contract, even if I don't know it.”

Sam let out a breath, leaning back into his chair and picked up the small glass again. “So you don't know.”

“I'd ask Rick's family but they…” Daryl’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I don't know where they are. Haven't seen them in years after I got Rick killed. Ask Bobby about the Grimes family. Maybe he knows where they're at.”

Sam nodded, trying to bite back his bitter disappointment. Even the great Daryl Dixon didn't know. Bobby had been the first person they had tried, but no dice. But it was a lead.

As he watched Daryl stare down at the broken watch that had long since stopped ticking, his heart felt heavy. Even all this time after losing his partner, Daryl couldn't find peace.

“Hey,” Sam murmured, leaning across the table to press in closer to the lonely archer. “If Rick was half as good as you are, he's up there. You're still here for a reason. Maybe this is why?”

Daryl glanced up just slightly, and Sam flinched as he saw the tears hanging on the edges of his eyelids, before he almost viciously rubbed them away with the back of his hand. “Haven't earned heaven yet. Don't think killing some kids is gonna get me there any faster.”

Daryl lifted his glass, drinking down the last drops that lingered at the bottom. He cleared his throat, even when it sounded like it was more of an attempt to choke back his pain.

“Dean, how was the shower?”

Sam blinked, confused for a moment before he looked past Daryl's shoulders, catching sight of his brother peeking out from around the corner. Dean's eyes were wide, as if he’d been caught in a pair of headlights, before he darted past the kitchen.

He could just barely see the sheen of water across his brother’s hair and arms, and he was wearing the same thing that they had come here in. Maybe he’d change later, but it seemed like a pretty impromptu shower.

God, he hoped Dean didn't… For his sake. If Daryl was upset at touching a blanket, God knows what he could have touched in the bathroom.

Daryl didn't bother looking back, not as he poured himself another drink. This was easily the fifth one he had taken, and looking at the bottle, it was nearly empty. “Bastard probably used the rest of my shampoo. Fucker.” There wasn't too much malice in his voice, maybe a dull teasing, but Daryl didn't seem amused either way, downing his drink in one large swallow.

The slur was already starting in his voice as the alcohol was given the opportunity to ravage his system. Sam didn't really want to drive Daryl to drinking, but there was little he could do to cheer him up.

Dean darted past them again, this time carrying a change of clothes. “Stop touching my shit,” Daryl called after him, still not turning his head. His voice had gotten considerably louder, less composed.

“Nothing to touch!” Dean called back.

“Touching my air!”

“I'll touch all the air!”

“Stay out of m’tub!”

“You have a tub  _ and  _ a shower? Would have pegged you as a shower guy,” Sam chuckled, happy for a change in conversation.

“It was Rick’s idea,” he muttered, looking down at the ragged edges of his fingernails. He seemed to lose himself for a second, then blinked, only just remembering that there was a conversation. “Said it’d help me relax at the end of a hunt.” Daryl shrugged. “He was right, I guess.”

“I just can’t picture you lounging in a tub, all covered in bubbles,” Sam laughed. “It tarnishes the manly image I had of you in my head.”

Daryl raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ more manly than sittin’ in bubbles. Makes your dick bigger.” Daryl lowered his eyes down to Sam’s crotch. “Maybe you should try it.”

Sam’s cheeks turned red, and Daryl leaned forward, flicking his eyes downward once again. “Does that blush go all the way down?”

“Oh my god!” Sam yelled, “What the fuck happened to asshole Daryl Dixon?” Flashing his eyes back down to the bottle, he realized that there was only a quarter inch or so left in the bottom. They had only been talking for a few minutes and Daryl had drank half of the entire bottle.

Lifting the once again full glass to his lips, Daryl spoke into it, “Maybe it’s your stunning personality.” He drained the glass, and filled it again with the last dregs of whiskey. “Could jus’ be drunk though. I’ma go with drunk.”

“Dean! Get in here, you have to see this!”

Coming into the kitchen, the first thing Dean noticed was Daryl sitting in his chair, relaxed, his loose-limbed legs sprawled in front of him. “Fuck. Is he drunk?”

“Mhmm,” Sam said, “It’s pretty entertaining.” Sam took away the empty bottle , and placed it onto the other side of the table, just as Daryl reached to take it again.

Daryl huffed his frustration that his alcohol was taken, even when the bottle was empty, before turning his head towards the noise behind him. His fogged eyes blinked, then his face went blank. It was as if the man had frozen where he sat, not a breath slipping from him.

Then he started moving rapidly, trying to pull himself out of the chair, his eyes never leaving Dean. It was sloppy and completely unlike the swift archer, but he stumbled to his feet, then practically lunged at Dean. Or fell. Dean still wasn't sure.

Yelping, Dean quickly caught Daryl by his shoulders, his own muscles twitching under his near dead weight. Then Daryl reached up and grabbed onto Dean's shoulders, hoisting himself up until they were eye to eye, barely a breath apart.

But the blue eyes were still foggy, unclear, and Dean realized that Daryl was looking right through him. The moment stretched out uncomfortably, before Daryl finally pulled his arms around Dean's shoulders, practically squeezing the life out of him and pushing his head into his shoulder.

Dean could only watch, stunned as the wide shoulders trembled, yet the other man remained silent. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he looked up at Sam from the corner of his eye. His voice was hushed, not yet willing to disturb the larger man.

“Wow. He really is drunk. How much did he have?”

Sam looked at the now empty bottle still in his hands. “Half a bottle, maybe. Minus a glass or two.”

Dean scoffed, looking back down at Daryl, who had not lightened his grasp. “Lightweight. How about we get you in bed, huh?”

“M’not tired,” Daryl mumbled through his shirt, shifting one arm to pull around the back of Dean’s neck and hook him closer. He did not lift his head, only curling himself closer into Dean's body.

Swapping glances at Daryl and Sam, Dean couldn't help but feel  _ extremely  _ uncomfortable. Daryl wasn't a hugger. Or a toucher. Or physical at all. What was he supposed to do? Coughing to try to gain Daryl's attention, he loudly said, “Up you go, you drunken fucker. Time for bed.”

His arms moved from where they were pinned at his sides, trying to put a bit of distance between them so he was not locked in a death grip, yet Daryl only tightened his hold.

Realizing he couldn’t untangle himself from the hunter, he groaned loudly then started backing himself down the hall. Daryl barely managed to stay on his feet, but he was cooperating, surprisingly enough.

Then Daryl turned and nuzzled his face into Dean’s neck, his words muffled. “Missed you,” he slurred, the vowels in his words dragging. Dean’s mouth dropped open as Daryl’s prickly facial hair scraped along his jawline, and he outright shivered when he felt wet kisses being pressed against his skin.

Manhandling Daryl down the hall, Dean managed to open up the bedroom door, while Daryl’s hands got increasingly grabby. He took a moment to be impressed with the clean lines, and masculine furniture in Daryl’s bedroom.

All the furniture was natural wood, polished to a sheen, and it reflected the moonlight that streamed into the room from large plate glass windows. The bed was  _ massive _ , even though he could see a plain indent to the right side.

There was a mound of pillows on the left side, and Dean swallowed down the ache in his chest.

Dean had to sit himself down on the bed first, trying not to let his body heat up with Daryl being practically on his lap. He grasped onto the wide shoulders, then started to  _ carefully  _ peel the man off. Only once he had laid Daryl down onto the right side did he disentangle their arms as gently as he could.

Of course Daryl would not stop his wish to do  _ whatever  _ to Dean, not as he childishly wrapped his arms around Dean's waist just moments after getting him onto the bed.

“Time to go to sleep, man. Gotta let me go.” When that did nothing, and when brute strength didn't work, he gave a loud groan. Dean  _ refused  _ to stay in this bed with a drunk Daryl. There was just… too much temptation.

But he had to give Daryl what he wanted, which was apparently affection.

Lifting up one hand, he carefully let it rest against the top of Daryl's head, then let it stroke down. When he was not bitten, scratched or shot, he carefully repeated the motion. Dean's heart lurched into his throat as he stared down at the beast of a man, now being lulled to sleep by gentle petting and playing with his hair.

It took a few minutes, maybe a bit longer as Dean lost track of time. He let himself relax with the other man, combing through surprisingly soft and fluffy hair. It was only when he felt Daryl shift and curl closer to him that he realized that Daryl had let go of him long ago.

Now freed, Dean slowly stood himself up from the bed, going as slow as he could, so he didn’t spook the other man. When Daryl remained still, he leaned over and began to position Daryl's body. He moved him to where Daryl's back rested against the pillows, laying him upon his side just in case he got sick.

Blinking open sleepy eyes, Daryl stared up at Dean for the first time since he had walked into the kitchen, his face hazy in the darkness. “Never gonna let you go again, ever,” he said, lifting up a hand and cupping Dean’s cheek. “Love you, Rick.”

Then, just as Dean reached up to grasp his wrist and move his hand away, Daryl lurched up. His other arm hooked around Dean's neck, quite literally dragging him down towards him. What greeted him was a sloppy and drunken attempt at a kiss.

But  _ damn. _ Daryl was a hell of a kisser, even when drunk.

Dean's body stiffened underneath Daryl's hold, his mouth unfortunately dropping open and allowing access to the hunter. Any instinct to push the larger man away died the moment that teeth bit down against his bottom lip.

All he could remember after that was that he  _ definitely  _ did not kiss back. Not at all. Not even a little. He  _ absolutely  _ did not try his best to tangle his hands into Daryl's shirt, losing himself momentarily in the heat…

And he certainly did not start moving onto the bed almost as if it was a primal instinct.

But all he could taste was the liquor, not the hunter. It was what pulled him out of the haze Daryl had sent him into, and with a grunt, he managed to separate himself from Daryl's hold.

“D-Daryl, I'm not-” Dean's words caught in his throat as he locked eyes with the older hunter, and the heat sent a bolt of  _ something _ through his body. The lopsided smirk claimed him, but then the blue eyes closed. Daryl’s breathing was already beginning to shallow, and sleep would soon overtake him.

With careful movements to try not to disturb the man too much, Dean’s shaking hands grabbed hold of the thick comforter and gave it a tug, pulling it over Daryl's body. It was too hot in his mind to have such thick blankets, but Daryl curled up within it easily.

It was then that the mumbles started. Soft twitches that came moments after seemingly falling asleep. He was back in his own little world, and Rick shared it with him.

Slipping his way out the door, he tried his best to not let his eyes linger on the archer, or listen to the words he murmured. Telling Rick he wouldn't let him go, he missed him, he loved him…

It was a bit too much for him as he stepped into the hallway, shutting the door with a gentle click.

Hissing out a sigh, he ran his fingers through his short hair and gave it a light tug. He hoped Daryl would not remember this in the morning, and would instead continue as if nothing had happened. Maybe he would consider it all a dream.

“He's pretty messed up,” Dean sighed as he walked back to the kitchen, only to see Sam putting the empty bottle of liquor in the trash. “He thought I was Rick, I guess.”

Sam frowned, his eyes darting to the empty glass that still sat on the table. “Probably why he said he doesn't drink. I barely noticed he had downed the rest of the bottle until it was too late.”

Dean let out a groan, rubbing his eyes with his palms in light frustration. “So we got an alcoholic nut of an ex-hunter leading us into battle tomorrow morning with a hangover.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, stepping around the kitchen and walking back into the living room. “Just forget about it. He probably will too. We’re just here until we can clear out the vampires, then you never have to see him again.”

It was a bit harsh, especially coming from Sam, and Dean couldn't help but flinch. Even if he wanted to avoid the other hunter, abandoning him in these lonely woods… In a forest full of memories, the same that were soaked into every inch of his home… It seemed almost cruel. Like kicking a puppy.

Sam had already grabbed clothes from his bag, intending to shower. “It's probably about time to pack it in anyway. Got a long day tomorrow and we gotta be sharp.” Dean could only give him a slight nod before he slipped out of sight, and then he heard the door close to the bathroom.

It now left just him in the living room, and he was excessively aware of the silence. It was broken up only by a few forest noises, leading to the idea that the walls were paper thin in this house. He glanced down at the couch, trying not to wince. He probably should have asked if there were any other places to sleep, but he had slept on a couch before, even if he had never shared it with his brother.

He plopped down at one end, adjusting the pillows to help support him as best as he could, then nearly grabbed onto the blue blanket. He caught himself just in time, though, and flinched, pulling his hand away. The blanket was precious to Daryl and they certainly weren't going to freeze without it.

Heaving a long sigh, Dean kicked his feet up on top of the coffee table and closed his eyes, hoping for the morning to be clearer than this mess of a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, look forward to the second part of this chapter!


	4. Vampires Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation
> 
> The men are ready for war, but there will be their fair share of scuffs and scratches.

Waking up abruptly, Daryl threw a hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Why he hadn’t closed the curtains before he went to sleep he had no idea. He lay still for a few moments, nestled down into his blankets, and then groaned as memories began to flood into his brain.

“Oh god, this is why I don’t drink,” he said, throwing off all his covers. Planting his feet on the floor, he started stripping out of the clothes that he’d slept in, thankful he hadn’t stripped before going to bed. A shower was necessary, right this second.

Wearing only faded boxer briefs, Daryl grabbed his towel, and went down the hall. Walking to the bathroom, he slowly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Deliberately avoiding looking at his living room, he nudged the bathroom door shut with his foot.

He turned on the shower, and waited for it to heat up, absently sliding his underwear down then flicking them into the hamper with one foot. Daryl tested the water, and sighed happily, stepping under the warm stream. He was not looking forward to today.

If Daryl had bothered to look, he wouldn’t have seen Sam or Dean in his house at all. They had both woken up before sunrise, and, after making sure everything was ready for the hunt, were standing outside next to the Impala, trying to decide which one of them would be waking Daryl up.

“I put him to bed last night, so you should have to wake him up.”

“No way, Dean, no way. He’s already thinks you’re an idiot, why chance it and make him think I am, too?” Sam said, with finality. They’d been arguing about this for thirty minutes already, and he was sick of it. “I’m not doing it. You can go in there, or we’ll sit out here until he wakes up on his own.”

“Sammy,” Dean whined, running his fingers through his short hair, “Please?”

“No,” Sam said, getting into the car and shutting the door. He pointed at the house, and gave Dean a bitchy look.

“Fuckin’ FINE!” Dean yelled, pointing a finger at Sam. “But if he shoots me with that damn crossbow, it’s your fault!”

Sam rolled his eyes, and made a shooing gesture at Dean.

Dean looked at the cabin warily, before taking a deep breath, and forcing his feet to move forward. He opened the door, and peeked inside, looking around to see if he was lucky, and Daryl was up and around.

No dice.

“Shit,” he murmured. “Maybe if I brush my teeth or something the noise will wake him up.”

Walking over to the bathroom door, he opened it up, intending to walk inside and “accidentally” slam it shut. He stopped short when he walked in to see Daryl, bracing his arms on the counter, his back facing Dean, the archer completely naked.

Dean’s eyes roamed over Daryl’s scar covered back, glistening and wet from his shower. Dean winced slightly at the thought of what had caused scarring that bad. They were thick and discolored, some almost purple. His eyes followed the path of one water droplet, rolling across the scars on his back and over the soft swell of the other man’s ass, and Dean unconsciously licked his lips.

“Help you with somethin’?”

Jerking his eyes upwards, he met Daryl’s impassive gaze in the mirror. “Sorry, I was just loo- I mean, I was gonna wash my hands and then go wake you up, ‘cause it’s late, and we were supposed to leave a couple hours ago, but you weren’t awake, and we weren’t sure if-”   
  
“Dean,” Daryl interrupted. “Shut up.” Daryl turned around, completely ignoring his own nakedness. He brushed past Dean and went into the hallway, his hand ghosting over Dean’s suddenly clenched abdomen. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes. Wait outside for me.”

Nodding dumbly, Dean stared at Daryl’s retreating back, watching his muscles flex and roll underneath his skin. “Fuck,” Dean whispered, looking away, and catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror. His pupils were dilated, and he was flushed. He looked like he was about to get laid. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he repeated, looking away from the mirror. “I am so screwed.”

* * *

When Dean came out of the house a few minutes later, he got directly in the car, and refused to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Dean. What did you do? Are you  _ blushing _ ?”

“No. Shut up.”

Sam gaped beside him, and he could hear him shifting around in his seat. “You're totally blushing! What did you do! Oh my god, was Daryl-”

“ _ Shut up! _ ”

Dean groaned loudly as he crossed his arms over the steering wheel and shoved his face into them in an attempt to hide his deepening blush.

He couldn't look at Sam, couldn't even turn his body for fear that Sam would see right through him. He could feel the thick heat still coiled up in his stomach, and his head was spinning over  _ every  _ detail.

The thick discolored scars that crisscrossed over his muscular shoulders. The tattooed demons fighting against the twisting scars of his right upper back. The way those wide shoulders slimmed down to those hips, his tight ass…

He’d only gotten a glimpse and it was seared into his memory. And when Daryl had turned around-

_ “Dean.” _

“Fucking  _ what!” _

_ Tap tap tap. _

Dean jumped in his seat, flicking his head to the left before staring right into the steel blue eyes of Daryl Dixon. They were narrowed, and he motioned for Dean to roll the window down.

Wincing slightly, he swallowed down the images that cluttered his mind before doing as Daryl asked.

“You ready? Gotta get moving.”

“Would have been there a shit ton earlier if you'd-” Sam elbowed Dean into the side. “Yeah we're ready. Gonna actually do something this time?”

“Gotta. Got two more dead bodies this morning and two missing. They're getting bigger. Can't wait around anymore.”

Dean stiffened in his seat, eyes widening. The count had already been 18 when Daryl had counted last… It was already up to 20, plus the newly turned he mentioned yesterday…

Daryl didn't hesitate before he stepped over to his motorcycle and climbed on. Finally getting a full look at the newly clothed archer, he swallowed. He could see the tips of bolts sticking out of his bag. The man was fully ready to kill, and there would be almost no chance of walking away empty handed.

They were going to war.

The motorcycle roared to life, before Daryl pulled away slowly. At least this time there were no rocks thrown. Putting the Impala into drive, they followed the motorcycle out.

Now the two brothers were sitting in near silence, and Dean could feel Sam's gaze almost constantly on him. And Dean couldn't stop staring at Daryl's ass in those tight jeans, all bent over on his motorcycle.

“Dean. Seriously. What did you do. I gotta know in case I need to set out some pillows for the porch.”

“I uh… may have…” Dean bit down onto his bottom lip, trying his best to chase away the sight of that muscular torso, the wide shoulders brimming with power, the way the muscles flexed and rolled…

“Kinda might have walked in on him after he took a shower. A little.”

The car turned quiet.

“I swear if you try to toss off now, I'm kicking you out of the car.”

Dean aimed a swift punch at Sam's arm. “Like I'd do that to my Baby,” he grunted softly, failing to keep the thick blush from covering his face. If they hadn't needed to leave as soon as possible, he probably would have made use of Daryl's shower but…

“How long has it been, Dean? Just curious. We've been pretty busy lately, after all.”

“Oh for fucks sake, Sam!”

Sam gave an innocent shrug. “It's just been awhile since you've been swinging on that side of the fence.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?! I could get a date if i wanted to!”

“I'm just saying! You've been cleaning your pipes so much I'm wondering if you forgot how to do it.”

“So that night two weeks ago in Youngstown was me cleaning the pipes? Oh wait, no,” Dean grinned, “I had them cleaned by that hot bartender with the killer heels. She left them on, by the way. Was  _ awesome. _ ”

“Whatever you say, man. I think you’re crushing on Surly McBikerson up there though,” Sam chuckled, pointing his finger at Daryl, who was driving ahead of them.

Dean frowned. “Not a chance.”

Sam looked pointedly at Dean’s crotch.

“Fine! Okay, but it’s not a crush! I saw the dude naked, c’mon. I can’t help it.”

“So,” Sam said, his mouth curling up in a little smirk, “Checked out the goods, huh? Nice?”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Since when do you care about any guy’s  _ goods,  _ Sam?”

Sam shrugged, shifting in his seat, and making the leather seat creak a little. “I’m an open minded kind of guy. Maybe I’ll try it out sometime. Just haven’t run into anyone that would make something like that worth it.”

“News to me.” Dean laughed for a moment, then his face paled. He looked back to his brother with wide eyes, traces of dread inside. “Oh shit, you’re not going to ask me for a gay sex talk are you?”

“I do have access to the internet,” Sam said, chuckling. “I think I’ll figure it out.”

“Huh. Okay, good talk.” Dean turned onto the same small dirt road as the day before, turning off the Impala, and getting out. He headed over to Daryl, who was pulling things out of his leather vest like it was a fucking clown car.

“How much shit do you have in there?” Dean asked, his eyes getting progressively wider with each item Daryl pulled out.

Daryl grunted, and reached in a final time, pulling out the leather wrapped Colt. He flipped off the covering, and ran his fingers across the barrel, his eyes drifting shut for a few seconds, then shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans. “You ready?”

Sam walked up behind Dean, and nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

Standing there, on the side of the dirt road, the three men cocked their weapons, nodded seriously at each other, and walked into the woods.

* * *

Daryl shifted his hands to grasp at his crossbow, his fingers playing with the feathers at the ends. He had spent many nights just staring at the silver tipped bolts, now coated in dead man's blood, wondering if they would ever be used again. Ever spill blood.

Today was the day.

He cleared his throat, stepping up to keep in front of the brothers and leading the way. There were no words passed between any of them, and they all knew that this was going to be hard. They may not come back. But that risk came with every hunt, something he had realized years ago.

The walk to the oak was quicker than before, and they unloaded the excess. The plan was that if one ran out of ammo or needed to back out of the fight, they would come here. If they were separated, come here.

If they were being overwhelmed and they started to get taken down… Run.

Daryl glanced quickly at the brothers, then let out a huff. “Went through this before but gonna go over it again. Got some whistles. Best way to communicate when we're apart.”

His eyes flicked between them before adjusting his grip on the crossbow. He whistled: high, low, high. “Where are you.” Low, high, high. “Danger, or run.” Low that stretched into high. “I'm here, or I need help.” High, high, almost like the chirps of a bird. “Move in, attack. Don't think we'll need much else. Questions?”

The boys shook their heads.

“Good. Once we get out there, we don't stop until I say so. But if you're hurt, get the fuck back. I'm not planning on dying today, and I'll be fucked if I let you two go, too.”

The eyes narrowed, but there was a strange softness. His eyes locked on Sam's first, then shifted to Dean. They lingered, before he shook his head and turned away.

“C’mon. Wasting time. You guys are going to the same spots as yesterday, and I'll give the signal to move in. If they got a bolt in 'em, bring 'em down. I'll go for the head or neck. I'm gonna flush them out into the open first, gonna burn the place down. We'll be using that to burn the pieces later.”

His hand reached down to his side, touching the bone hilt of his hunting knife, his favorite. It was going to be splattered in the blood of a monster tonight, the first time in years. The red handled machete rested against the other side of his hip, and he only brought  _ that _ out for special occasions.

Daryl only hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts, before he slid into the thick trees, almost fading away into the shadows. The brothers slipped in behind, and the hunt began.

* * *

Sharp blue eyes watched through the grass, prowling much like a beast that had finally cornered its prey. He had circled the house twice now, making sure to count each entrance and exit. There were only three doors, one to the north which was the main entrance that had Dean with a clear shot, one to the east, and one to the South. He needed to take down one of them.

He would take down the east exit. It would make them separate across the house and cut them off in the middle.

Daryl remained crouched as he began to step out of the treeline, his shoulders tense and his eyes scanning for any movement. But the coven was asleep. No one had moved, and he was sure that the majority were inside. The tracks outside the house were old, at least since the middle of the night.

This was going to be their chance.

Daryl reached into his jacket, already beginning to pull out the lighter from his pocket. It was his favorite, dented up and scratched but it was always with him. Now, it would help him again.

He pressed his back against the wall of the house, his eyes on the door. Now he needed the accelerant.

He smirked. At least now he had some use for the Jack Daniels they’d brought him.

He slipped his bag down from his shoulders, then knelt into the grass. The flap was unhooked before he grasped the bottle still half filled with the liquor.

Hoping that Dean could see him, he smirked to himself as he grabbed the red bandana that was always shoved into his back pocket and stuffed it into the opening. He shoved it in deep enough to be soaked in the liquor and gave it a quick shake.

“'Bout as good of a use of this shit as I can think of.”

The end of the bandana was lit quickly, then he grabbed the doorknob. Giving a quick kiss of good luck against the bottle, he opened the door, smashed the bottle onto the floor inside the house, then closed the door again.

At first there was no sound. No reaction. Then he could begin to hear the roar of the fire as it caught hold of the liquor.

“The hell’s…”

“What was that?”

“Shit! Fire! Get out!”

Darting back from the door, he rushed over to the South side of the house, yet remained in the clearing. He was the first line of attack, even if he knew the brothers were probably moments away from yanking him back into the tall grass. He would wound them and slow them down enough to where he wouldn't be swarmed  _ right  _ away. Then Dean and Sam would get to work.

Yanking the crossbow off of his shoulder and loading in the first bolt, he leveled the weapon at the door. “Come get me, bloodsuckers.”

The door smashed open, and the first bolt was fired, sinking into the throat of the first vampire he saw. By the time he had reloaded, they had abandoned the door and started scurrying for the north entrance. But he was ready.

The first one he saw entering the clearing at the other side of the house soon was struck down by the back of the head, and it fell. But this would be the easy part. The surprise wouldn't last long. Halfway through reloading the third bolt, Daryl pushed his fingers into his mouth and gave two quick high whistles.

_ Move in. Attack. _

He was barely able to take in another breath when another vampire lunged across the clearing, only to drop with a screech as a bolt was sank into it’s throat. If he hit the spine, he may be lucky enough to help decapitate it. But right now he had to focus on hitting as many as he could.

For several long moments, Daryl’s mind was focused on an endless stream of load, fire, load, fire. He managed to take down five or six of the bloodsuckers before a bigger group started heading his way.

Dropping the crossbow, and grabbing at the machete hanging off his belt, he sneered at the charging vamps. “Come and get it, you bloodsuckin’ freaks.”

The first one tried to barrel into him, and knock him down, but Daryl was quicker. He spun out of the way, and brought the machete down hard, slicing cleanly through the vampire’s neck. The other four paused a minute, taking in the sight of Daryl standing there, his teeth bared, and a feral look on his face. Blood dripped off the red-handled machete in his hand. He almost seemed more of a monster than them.

“What’s the matter? Not feelin’ so confident anymore?” he taunted, his grip tightening on the blade.

Two charged him now, and he ducked underneath their outstretched hands, throwing a kick out to the side, and catching one in the spine. That one went down, and he turned on the other, swinging his machete with all his strength. Another one down, he turned to the vamp that was struggling to get up from where he lay sprawled in the dirt.

Wasting no time, he walked over, and swung the machete again, blood spraying up and hitting him in the face. Wiping it off with a disgusted noise, he was unprepared for the other two vampires to come up behind him. When he felt their arms wrap around him, he let out a sharp whistle, low note that quickly raised higher.

Dean had killed four vampires by his count when he heard Daryl’s whistle. “Shit!” he cursed, whipping his blade to the side and splashing a long trail of blood onto the side of the house. Discarding stealth for expediency, Dean yelled out for Sam. “Get to Daryl, now!”

The two vampires had pulled a wildly struggling Daryl back into the house and slammed the door by the time Sam rounded the corner. Wasting no time, Sam burst through the flimsy wooden door, and watched Daryl’s feet disappear up the stairs. “Dean, get your ass in here!” he yelled, already pounding up the stairs, machete raised.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, as he sliced the head off a vampire who’d been trying to flee. Flicking off the blood, and not seeing any more vamps around, he headed to the front of the house.

Sam was standing on the second floor landing when Dean made it inside the house, his hands raised, and his machete laying halfway down the stairs. Creeping closer, Dean could just make out the vampires talking. “Come any fucking closer, and he’s dead.”

Making his voice as reassuring as possible, Sam tried to calm them down. “Hey, I threw my weapon down, just let him go.”

Craning his neck, Dean caught a glimpse of the vamp doing the talking, and one directly behind him, whose mouth was open, and poised inches from the rapidly beating pulse in Daryl’s neck. Daryl was growling softly, itching to reach for the knife at his side but the speaking vampire had his arms twisted his against back, making him helpless.

Backing up and pressing against the wall, Dean moved until he was back out on the porch. Spotting Daryl’s crossbow on the grass, he ran over, and picked it up. Jerking an arrow out of one of the bodies littering the front lawn, Dean slung the crossbow over his shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, Dean looked at the open window on the second floor. Trying to remember exactly how Daryl had done it yesterday, Dean clambered up onto the porch rail, and started hauling himself up onto the roof.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezed, throwing one leg over. “This is harder than that asshole made it look.”

After a tense moment when Dean was sure he was going to fall, he managed to haul his body up onto the roof. Grabbing the crossbow off his back, he grabbed the string, and tried to pull it back. He grunted with the effort, and managed to draw it back about three inches. “Oh, c’mon!” Setting the bow on the ground, he put his foot in the stirrup, and grasped the string with both hands. His face turned red, and he thought he may have given himself a hernia, but the crossbow was cocked and ready. He slid the bolt in, and crept over to the window.

From what little Dean had seen of it, the fire didn’t seem to be spreading, but the smoke was thickening. It was enough to make the vampires, standing with their back to him about fifteen feet away, slightly hazy. Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leveled the crossbow on the vamp that was poised over Daryl’s neck like a giant mosquito.

_ Inhale _ , pick your target.  _ Exhale _ , firm up your aim.  _ Inhale _ , double check the target.  _ Exhale _ , shoot.

The bolt went a bit wide. Dean had only used a crossbow only once or twice in his life, enough to know how, but not nearly at Daryl’s proficiency. It still hit, though, which is what mattered. It sunk into the vampire’s shoulder, causing it to let out a shriek of pain, and shove Daryl away.

Daryl pinwheeled his arms, trying to find his balance, but the push had been too hard. He stumbled a few feet forward, and crashed through the already broken window at the top of the stairs. There was a muffled thump when he hit the ground, and Dean winced.

As soon as Sam saw the bolt hit, he’d lunged for his machete, and he was fast enough that the other vamp didn’t even realize what had happened until his head was bouncing down the stairs.

Sam rushed over to the window, ignoring the meaty thuds the head made as it rolled down the stairs. He shoved his head through and looked down at the ground. Daryl lay there, sprawled out on the lawn, his hand clamped onto his shoulder. The cloth of Daryl’s shirt was rapidly reddening with blood. He looked up at Sam, and winced. “I’m alright, just get all the stragglers and the ones we dosed with dead man’s blood. It ain’t gonna last much longer.”

Dean had already pulled himself through the window, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder as he had seen Daryl do countless times. His eyes were watering from the smoke, and he pressed his sleeve to his mouth to try to prevent himself breathing it in.

“Sam, go get the stragglers, I gotta get Daryl,” he rapidly ordered, to which Sam simply nodded. The first his little brother turned to was the vampire trembling on the floor, the arrow still protruding from his shoulder.

With one quick motion, it’s head was separated from it’s neck, and Sam yanked out the bolt. One down, probably… twenty more to go. Goodie for him.

Sam rushed his way down the stairs, trying to stay clear of the fire but couldn't stop himself from kicking the rolling head into the blaze. Dean followed moments later, after looking out the window Daryl had fallen through, just to make sure he wasn't dead.

The house became a blur as panic rose in his chest, racing through and finding the doorway Sam had smashed through. While Sam rounded the corner to pick off the remnants, Dean sprinted in the opposite direction.

He found Daryl still sprawled out on the ground, having barely moved, and that alone caused Dean’s heart to jump into his throat. Skidding to a stop beside him, he knelt down and pressed his hands against where Daryl was holding his shoulder, feeling the hot blood pulsing beneath.

“Easy, man, stay down. Don't know if you broke anything, or if you got a concussion. Sam's better at this shit than I am.”

“Great.” Daryl's groan caught Dean off guard, having never heard Daryl being in physical pain before. He didn't count the photo situation, that was mix of a ton of shit. It made a cold shiver run down his spine and his chest tightened.

“Sam, how many? He's bleeding out!”

“Give me a second!”

Daryl huffed under his touch, then of course began the attempt to get to his feet. “Not one for bedside service,” he grunted, only for his body to nearly lock up with sudden pain.

“Hey, I said stay down! If you broke your back or your neck then-” Then what? They couldn't call an ambulance. They would never be able to find their way here. And the house would burn down by the time they got here and they’d have to move him anyway…

“Not broken. Just… shit.”

Daryl's eyes squeezed shut, biting onto his bottom lip to not voice his pain. Only now did Dean realize that he had been pushing on Daryl’s shoulder much too hard and saw the slight awkwardness of the arm. Dislocated, if he had to guess, but, hopefully, not broken.

“Shit, sorry!” Dean said, wincing to himself before reaching forward and starting to pull at the black vest that was darkening with all the blood Daryl was losing. Just as he started shifting it over his shoulder, he felt Daryl suddenly tense beneath him and grit his teeth together. Dean winced and released the fabric.

He really wasn't good at this medical shit.

“Dean, what the hell! You're going to mess up his shoulder more!”

Sam's slightly panting breaths had never been so welcomed, even if he still wanted to punch him across the face. He felt Sam's hands on his shoulder, nudging him to move aside which he quickly did.

“Ah damn, Daryl, did you hit your head? Move your legs, your arms, everything moving okay? Numbness, tingling-”

“I'm  _ fine _ except for my fucking  _ shoulder.”  _ There was the tone Dean was much more familiar with, coupled with icy eyes glaring deep into Sam. Now he could be pissed off at someone else.

Trying to think quickly, since the blood was starting to drip down onto the grass, having already soaked through Daryl's clothes, Sam unbuckled his belt before rapidly sliding it off. “Gonna have to cut off circulation, then put pressure. Dean, give me your jacket.”

Dean's immediate reaction of asking why the fuck Sam wanted him to strip in front of Daryl was thankfully dismissed, instead he quickly pulled his dark gray jacket over his shoulders. It wasn't his plaid, since Daryl had already given his opinion about  _ that _ choice of hunting clothing.

Pressing it into Sam’s waiting hand, he watched as he wrapped the loop of the belt up into his wide shoulder, then tightening it. Almost immediately, Daryl snarled at him, his body jerking in an instinctive attempt to ward off any more pain.

“Dean, hold him down!” Sam yelped, eyes wide as he desperately tried to tighten the belt even while Daryl struggled. Acting quickly, Dean stretched himself across and pressed his hand against Daryl's chest and shoulder, but that wasn't quite enough. Daryl was bigger than both of them in terms of pure muscle and strength, leading to Dean having to sit down on Daryl's stomach to hold his entire torso down.

Even with Daryl still struggling violently against them, Sam managed to lock the belt in place before taking the shirt and wrapping it around where the blood was coming from. They wouldn't be able to get an actual look at the wound until Daryl calmed down enough to let them take off the vest and shirt.

Chances are that he cut himself on the glass from the window, probably landed on the shoulder… there were so many arteries in the shoulder, and if he kept bleeding like this…

Sam stepped back as soon as the jacket was tied down, not wanting to be the subject of Daryl's rage for messing with his dislocated shoulder. It left Dean holding Daryl down, grabbing onto his other arm in an attempt to keep Daryl from swatting him off.

“Hey, you're gonna be fine. Just calm down, deep breaths, gonna get you out of here and stitch you up. Got all our supplies by the oak, remember?”

Daryl only growled softly, grinding his teeth together to the point that it muted an actual answer. Dean looked at the gray jacket, swallowing as he saw the red bleeding through it, but not quite so fast. It must be slowing down.

After a few tense moments, Sam shifted over before starting to run his hands along Daryl's injured arm, then touched his head, moving his fingers through his hair in search of a bump or wound. “Any trouble breathing, headache, dizziness-”

“Don't touch me!” Daryl hissed, throwing another frigid glare at Sam, who flinched and lowered his head.

Dean bit back a retort as hard as he could, the instinct for protecting his little brother only just being masked by concern for Daryl. Another glance to the shoulder and the blood flow had slowed considerably.

“Do you think we can move him? Don't have long until the fire kicks in. And we gotta burn the bodies.”

“Shit,” Sam hissed softly to himself, looking up to the broken window to where he could see the smoke turning thicker as it leaked out. “We can burn them after we get to the oak. He needs stitches bad.”

“I think we might want to fix that dislocated shoulder first.” Dean glanced at Sam, and jerked his chin towards Daryl. “Hold him.”

Sam moved into place behind Daryl, and grabbed hold of his good shoulder, sliding his other hand to Daryl’s side. “You know this is going to hurt like hell, right?”

They received an irritated grunt as an answer. Daryl closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Do it.”

Dean quickly gasped Daryl’s arm, and put his other hand on his shoulder blade. “On the count of three. One… Two…”

On the count of two, Dean pushed forward on Daryl’s shoulder blade, and pulled down on his arm. A low moan of pain escaped Daryl’s lips at the same moment that he heard the telltale click of the joint, then a narrow-eyed glare was directed Dean’s way. “Thought you said on three, you  _ prick _ !”

Dean shrugged. “You would’ve tensed up. Do it before you’re ready, and it hurts less. Trust me.”

“Whatever you say.” Daryl pulled his hand away, and began to try and push himself off the ground. He didn’t make it very far before Dean grabbed his unwounded arm again, and pulled it over his shoulders. “My legs ain’t hurt, I can walk fine,” Daryl said, a half hearted scowl on his face.

“You fell out of a damn window, man, let me help you,” Dean said, pulling Daryl’s arm more firmly around his own shoulders, and starting the long walk back to the oak.

Daryl's teeth were set in a grimace, but he gave up on complaining. Daryl glanced back at Sam from the corner of his eyes. “If you just drag the bodies that are out here close to the house, I’m sure the fire’ll take care of ‘em.”

Looking back at the house that was now about half consumed, Dean grinned at Sam. “A vamp-b-que.”

“You’re really not as funny as you think you are,” Sam sighed.

“Screw you, I’m hilarious.”

Sam just rolled his eyes, and started dragging bodies.

“We’ll meet you back at the cabin,” Dean yelled over his shoulder, just before he and Daryl crossed into the trees.

“Don’t forget my crossbow!” Daryl added.

About ten minutes later, Daryl and Dean walked up to the oak tree where all their extra supplies were.

“Shit, man, you weigh a goddamn ton,” Dean panted, as he settled Daryl against the tree. The older hunter only grunted, his good hand grasping at his bleeding shoulder.

“I’m sure you ain’t exactly light, yourself. Hand me that grey bag, I’ll sew up my shoulder, then I can go home, and you can help Sam with the cleanup.”

“You’re going to try and drive your bike home on your own? You really think that’s a good idea?” Dean asked, looking pointedly at Daryl.

Letting out a long sigh, Daryl shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Guess not.” He looked up at Dean through his bangs. “You gonna hand me that bag, or what?”

Dean sighed. “Look, Daryl, I’m going to help you get onto the bike, then I’m going to drive us back to your cabin. I’ll set you up in the kitchen, and I’ll sew up your shoulder. You are right-handed, aren’t you? Be kind of hard to stitch your right shoulder yourself.”

“Fine,” Daryl scowled, glaring up at Dean, “But if you fuck my bike up, I’ll kill you.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, now let’s go, you’re still losing blood.”

* * *

Half an hour later found Daryl sitting on a chair in his kitchen, glaring daggers at Dean. “No!” he yelled.

“Just take off the goddamn shirt, Dixon! I need to see if there’s any more cuts, and it’s soaked in blood!”

“Ain’t got any more cuts, just sew the one on my shoulder and shut the fuck up.” His large hand tightened on the ice pack he had pressed to his injured shoulder, already covered in blood, as was the rest of his body.

“Alright, I’m done arguing about this,” Dean muttered softly. He walked over the grey bag and took out a pair of scissors, before turning around and brandishing them at Daryl. “Take it off, or I’m cutting it off. The vest, too.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes, staring at the blade then back at Dean with eyes that could have frozen him where he stood. “You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare,” came the beastly growl.

Glaring balefully at Daryl, Dean said, “Try me.”

The glare battle held for a few moments, but as the blood continued soaking into his fabric, Daryl let out a reluctant sigh of defeat. Muttering under his breath, he slowly started peeling off his leather vest, dropping the ice pack and starting on the buttons of his shirt. After struggling for a few moments, he gave up and held out a hand. “Gimme the scissors. Shirt’s a lost cause anyway.”

Dean walked over to Daryl’s side. “I’ll do it,” he said, gruffly, pulling the blood-soaked fabric away from Daryl’s skin. Cutting carefully, he managed to get the whole thing off without Daryl having to move his injured arm at all.

Putting the scissors aside, Dean settled in the chair next to Daryl, scooting in close. His entire back and shoulder were coated in blood, and he could see small scrapes and cuts. He grabbed a rag off the table, and dipped it into the bowl of lukewarm water he’d set there after he’d gotten Daryl into the kitchen. He could feel the stormy blue eyes on him at all times.

Gently swiping at the blood staining Daryl’s skin, Dean got an up close view of a long gash in his upper arm. It was several inches long, and extended from his bicep almost all the way up and across to his collar bone.

As he followed the gash up his arm that ran to his chest, he couldn't help but be distracted by the necklace that had been tucked beneath his clothing. It was a simple chain necklace, but what wasn't simple were the charms.

Two red fang-like charms, one connected to the other, all being held by a silver wolf with piercing red eyes. It was odd, since Dean didn't peg Daryl as someone who would wear jewelry, but he kept quiet, and focused on stitching the other man up as best as he could.

“This is gonna hurt like hell,” Dean said, grabbing the bottle of vodka Daryl had managed to scrounge up.

“Yeah, get it over with, would you?”

Daryl’s voice turned into a hiss when Dean poured the liquor over his wound, and several curses leaked out of his mouth.

Dean’s lay his hand over Daryl’s uninjured shoulder and squeezed gently, and he leaned forward to blow a stream of air over the wound. Dean lifted his eyes to Daryl’s after he was done, his lips still pursed. The other man’s eyes were focused on his lips. Nervously licking them, Dean dropped his gaze, and cleared his throat.

“Okay, let’s get you stitched up.”

Soft mutters were all that Daryl gave in response, trying to keep himself as still as he could. His shoulder and arm felt like they were ablaze, and he was certain that it was a waste of good liquor. Daryl dropped his eyes to the ground, hanging his head slightly to keep his hair from getting in the way.

As if feeling Dean's eyes finally resting on his back where he had found the first cut, his muscles seized up and rippled beneath the skin, beneath the near countless scars that laced his back. The demons across his right shoulder has nearly been cut, but nothing could stop their battle.

Dean swallowed as he tried,without much success, to  _ not _ gaze upon the bounty of muscle and scar, but he couldn't help but think about how impossibly  _ wide  _ Daryl’s shoulders were. And they were thick with muscle.

“Y’gonna start or what.”

Blinking rapidly, Dean silently reached over to the bag and pulled it closer, grabbing the needle and stitching thread. Apparently they must have been used a lot because there were empty spools sitting at the bottom of the bag.

It took a few tries to finally thread the needle, especially when he noticed how Daryl's bicep practically shone in the light after being doused with vodka, but Dean was eventually successful. Grinning at his small victory, he finally looked back at the wounds.

Dean would work across the back first, before moving in front for the part that stretched to his collarbone. Though just as he was about to start knitting the flesh closed, something caught his eye.

“Ah, damn,” he muttered softly to himself, reaching out and pressing his hand against Daryl's shoulder, using his thumb to open up the wound to get a closer look.

Daryl jolted immediately, and he earned a hiss. “The hell are you doing back there?!” He growled softly, trying to turn his head to look back at Dean, but the other man held him still.

“You have some glass in here still. I gotta get some tweezers.” Setting the needle and thread onto the table, he began picking through the bag again. There was a pair sitting all the way at the bottom, and he brushed them off with his shirt.

“Okay, hold still. This is gonna hurt.”

“It hasn't  _ stopped,  _ you fuck!”

Point taken. Using one hand to stretch the wound open, which Daryl cussed at, he began picking at the sliver of glass he could barely see through the blood. It took a few tries, but he managed to gain a grip on it.

Feeling that warning Daryl would only result in more cursing and stiffening up, he began to tug. He heard Daryl's breath catch in his throat, but he managed to stay silent. A new trail of blood began weeping down from the cut, which only masked the sight of the glass.

Hoping that he wouldn’t simply break it and have to go in for the smaller pieces, he pulled again.

This time the tip slid just out of the flesh, and Dean could get a better grasp. “Mother of  _ fuck _ -” Daryl cursed through gritted teeth.

“I gotcha, almost out. Deep breath.” Releasing the wound, since he could now visibly see the glass without the assistance, he let his hand drop down to Daryl’s uninjured shoulder. When he began the slow process of sliding the glass out, though, he could feel Daryl shake beneath his touch.

“Hey, I got you! I'm right here, it's almost over. Okay?” Dean hushed softly, lifting his hand and pressing it against Daryl's side in some sort of comfort. There was a flinch, but the shaking stopped. Daryl's breath hitched, then evened out again.

Taking the moment of peace and running with it, Dean adjusted his grip on the slice of glass before pulling. This time, it slid out free of the wound, allowing Dean to look at it in all its gruesome glory.

It was a little over an inch long, like an acute triangle. It certainly would have caused damage if he hadn’t spotted it.

“Jesus, could have used this to decapitate the vamp that pushed you out the window,” he teased, pressing himself closer to Daryl to move his arm around and allow him to look at the bloodied slice of glass.

Looking up at Daryl’s eyes, though, they weren’t looking at the glass. Instead they looked back at Dean’s. Daryl’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darted down, then back up to Dean’s face. Only then did Dean realize his hand had been still tightly holding Daryl's side, dangerously close to his hip.

“Shit, sorry, didn't mean to,” he raced to catch himself, lifting his hand away from the bare skin. Immediately he could feel the loss of heat, and it left him with an odd sense of loss, wanting to move his hand back and feel the warmth.

But he banished the thought. He had to focus on Daryl's wound.

After running some more vodka though the wound and watching it spread the red all the way down his back, Dean picked up the needle and began to sew without delay.

An anxious silence consumed them. Dean focusing on the stitching, while Daryl stared at the table, the liquor, the floor, or tried to watch Dean. But both of them were silent, trying to avoid any kind of conversation.

After this, the brothers were done with their job, after all. There would be more jobs lined up, and chances are, they would never come back to Georgia, or at least the little piece of wilderness Daryl has claimed as his own.

It sent a pain through Dean’s chest. Certainly he wasn't going to see it again. He had six months left to live, and he was going to spend every second of it hunting with Sam. But he also wanted to stay here.

There were so many things about the other man he wanted to know… He wanted Daryl to show him how to shoot the crossbow. Show him how he made the squirrel stew, and those biscuits. Maybe… Maybe ask about the blanket, the pictures, the chair… The scars.

Every time he pressed his hand against Daryl's back to keep himself steady, they would always slip onto another raised scar. Daryl would sometimes flinch, but for the most part, he was quiet.

Just as he tied the final stitch, though, his fingers touched a particularly rough scar. Flashing his eyes down, he winced.

It was near purple, having nearly burnt look that was one solid, thin stripe reaching from his hips, across his spine and finishing just under where Dean was stitching. After closer examination, he realized that it was scar upon scar, lash upon lash layered into one long stretch. His thumb, the finger that had found the lash, slowly moved up and down a small section. How many years had Daryl carried these scars? They certainly weren't new.

Dean swallowed down the bile that tried to run up his throat. At the same moment, the shoulders stiffened up, and Daryl turned his head to look back at him, catching Dean staring at his back, the other hand still holding the needle.

“You done?” came the murmur, but it wasn't anger. Just… Quietness. Tiredness. An exhaustion that seemed beyond Daryl's years as Dean looked back up and was caught within his gaze. Dean's mouth dropped open to fumble an apology, but no words came out.

The awkward moment was interrupted by the loud rumble of the Impala pulling onto the gravel drive. Dean quickly backed away from Daryl, and mumbled something about checking on his brother. Daryl’s eyes followed him until he was out the door.

After running a hand across his face, Daryl turned and inspected the stitches in his shoulder as well as he could. Small, and neat. Just as good as as Daryl could have done himself.

Reaching for the supplies on the table, Daryl set about getting himself bandaged. The stitches on his arm would have to wait. Maybe Sam would be a better choice to help him with that. His hand fidgeted with the medical tape, and his mind wandered to Dean.

Daryl had no problem admitting to himself that he found Dean attractive. Though, he was pretty positive that anything with a pulse would be enamoured of the man. He was also pretty positive that Dean found him attractive as well. The question now was, what did he want to do about it? There was a point when Daryl had been sure that he’d never want to be with anyone else ever again. After Rick…

Shaking his head, Daryl sighed. If anything happened, it wouldn’t be like it was with Rick. Not even close. You were lucky if you got even one chance in life to have something like that, and Daryl wasn’t fool enough to believe he’d be one of the rare few that got a second one. So, whatever Dean was, it wouldn’t be anything like love. Lips quirking a bit at the sides, he decided that Rick wouldn’t mind if he had a bit of fun with Dean. Hell, for all Daryl knew Rick was looking down from somewhere cheering him on.

His mind made up to, if not pursue outright, not be opposed to anything developing between him and Dean, Daryl resumed bandaging the stitches he could reach. That small smile never quite left his lips.

* * *

Later on that night, after eating some take out that Dean had gone into town for, Daryl stood up from the table, and made his way outside. Leaning his hip against the porch rail, smoking a cigarette, he watched the fireflies dancing around in the grass.

When the door opened a few minutes later, Dean walked out onto the porch.

“Sam’s doing his nerd thing on the laptop,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and looking at Daryl nervously. “Thought I’d see if you could use some company.”

“Was thinkin’ about goin’ for a drive. If you wanna tag along.”

Dean frowned. “You can’t drive your motorcycle, and from the looks of that truck, it’s not going anywhere.”

“Nah, not the bike or the truck.” Daryl looked at Dean, his mouth quirking at the corners. “Got somethin’ around back I think you’ll like. C’mon.”

Following Daryl down off the porch, and around the side of the house, Dean asked, only half joking, “It’s not anything that’ll try to eat me is it?”

“Nah,” Daryl said, as they walked up on a large detached garage that was all but invisible from the front of the house.

Daryl walked up to the door, and pulled a set of keys from his pocket, unlocking the padlock that hung from the latch. “This belonged to Rick. He didn’t know anything about it, but he loved the damn thing.”

Swinging the door wide, Dean peered into the darkness, not seeing anything but a slight gleaming in the moonlight. Daryl walked further inside, and flipped a switch, lighting up the interior of the garage.

“Holy shit,” Dean gasped, once his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Sitting in the middle of the immaculate space, which was equipped with whatever tool Dean could ever imagine needing to do any kind of work on his Impala, was a 1967 Chevrolet Camaro. It was black, with two solid silver stripes running along the hood and trunk.

Daryl smiled, and ran a hand along the hood. “Bought it for $1200. It was more rust than car, but Rick swore there was a beauty underneath all the shit. As usual, he was right. Took us two years to get it finished.” Daryl laughed softly, a sound that seemed almost foreign coming from his lips. “I say it took  _ us _ two years, but Rick didn’t know shit about fixin’ cars. He mostly sat around and watched. Handed me tools sometimes.”

Dean walked forward, his eyes never leaving the gleaming body of the car. “This almost makes me want to cheat on my baby.”

“Why do you think I brought you out here? I try and take it for a drive once every two weeks or so. I’m about a week and a half overdue.” When Dean looked over at him, Daryl tossed him the keys.

Breaking out into a wide smile that made him look several years younger, Dean asked, “Really?”

Daryl nodded, and fixed his face into a semi scowl. “Hurry up before I change my mind,” he said, opening the passenger side door and getting in.

Dean slid in, almost moaning at the feel of the leather seats, and Daryl said, nonchalantly, “Fuck it up and I’ll kill you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, and started the car.

A low rumble filled the garage, and Dean started mumbling praise for the car under his breath.

“You gonna talk to it, or drive it?”

Glaring over at Daryl, Dean frowned. “I’m just introducing myself. With something like this you need to take your time. You don’t just shove it in and go to town.”

“Hmmm,” Daryl said, his face thoughtful. “Never applied that particular piece of advice to cars before. Sex on the other hand…”

Dean choked, his face immediately going red. “You’re a horrible person,” he said, once his coughing fit had ended.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Daryl shrugged.  “Start driving, princess. Honk the horn when we get closer to the house. Don’t want Sam thinking I kidnapped you.”

Dean tried his best to glare at Daryl, but failed. It was like the beauty of the car made any and all trivial problems disappear. Instead he settled in with a sigh, and adjusted himself in his seat. The sound of his body against the leather was near  _ orgasmic _ .

Purring praise one more time, Dean reached down and put it in drive, slowly pulling out of the garage. “Where are we going?” he asked, his focus spreading all across the car as he traveled the gravel driveway, seeing the house coming into view.

“Got an idea. Go down the road we've been drivin’, I'll tell yah when to turn.”

Daryl's voice was soft beside him, and he glanced over to see him relaxing back against the leather, eyes gazing out the window he had rolled down. It was probably the most at ease Dean had ever seen him, not counting the night he was drunk.

Dean forced his eyes back to the path, and pulled up front of the house. Giving two quick honks, he waited until he saw the curtains part and Sam looking out from between them. Grinning to the point his cheeks would hurt, Dean gave him a wave, flipped him off, and quickly drove off and onto the road.

“God you're both damn children,” Daryl muttered beside Dean, but could hear a low chuckle in his voice. “How old are you two, eight? Six?”

“Hey, he's got it coming to him most of the time! His fault for nerding out and not having fun,” Dean laughed in reply, leaning farther back into the leather. She drove so incredibly smooth, like a queen that was only allowed out into the daylight to be adored.

Even if Daryl didn't drive her often, he could tell how much care he put into her even now. There was barely a speck of dust. The car practically glistened in the moonlight, and it was as close to perfect as it could ever be.

“Left up here.”

“Gotcha.”

God, she turned so smoothly! Like silk! Dean couldn't stop smiling as he listened to the low purr of the engine, and the sound of the wind rushing past…

He glanced over to Daryl, and he was  in much the same position as before, but he could see his chest puff out just slightly, his head held a little higher. This was his and Rick's child, in a way. Their baby. Daryl was near beaming with pride in his own way. Chances are, Dean was the first to lay eyes on her in a long time.

Speaking of people…

“Oh, Bobby said that he wants you to call more. Sam passed the message. Just thought I'd tell you now so you have an excuse to forget.”

“Hmph.” Daryl's grunt was the only answer, before he nodded his head over to the right. “Turn,” he murmured, and Dean obeyed.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Dean asked, almost sure that he wouldn't get an actual answer. He didn't, only getting a mutter that he couldn't quite hear.

They turned onto a winding road, more of a trail than anything else, and Dean felt his heart launch into his throat. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Daryl's car, to accidentally hit a log or bump or-

“Stop her here. Too narrow,” Daryl finally said, and Dean let out a breath of relief.

“I can see why you use the bike,” he commented as he parked the beauty, then turned off the engine. Giving her one more stroke across the steering wheel, he opened the door and stepped out.

Daryl was already several feet in front, and Dean could just barely make out the white wings stitched onto his vest. He had been determined to wash out as much of the blood as he could, and even though he had put on a fresh shirt, he insisted on wearing it. Maybe it was another gift from Rick, but he couldn't see Daryl allowing something from his lost partner to get dirty or bloodied.

Catching up to Daryl, he walked beside him, careful to keep some space between their bodies. He bit back the question of where they were going, especially as Daryl turned and headed towards some thicker bushes.

“Watch your head,” he grunted, ducking under some low branches and stepping his way through the bushes. Not wanting to lose sight of his guide, Dean rushed to catch up, only to nearly crash into his back.

Catching himself just enough, he strained to look over Daryl's shoulders before his mouth dropped. Stretching out before him was a peaceful lake, surrounded by the chirping of birds, frogs and toads croaking, even the hooting of an owl nearby.

How many secrets did Daryl have in this forest? It seemed nearly untouched, but as Daryl stepped down, Dean could see a wooden dock stretching a few feet out over the water.

“Used ta’ fish here. Me and Rick would catch dinner. Haven't needed to come back in a while,” Daryl remarked quietly, stepping onto the dock. He tested each plank one at a time to make sure it was not rotting, before finally standing at the edge.

Dean was slower to approach it, being much more satisfied with staying on the shore. He was sick and tired of things dragging him down into the water as it was, and he wouldn't give anything the chance.

Even when Dean gave no response, Daryl continued to talk. Maybe it was just to himself, or maybe to the lake, or to nothing at all.

“One time, Rick got the bright idea to use a fucking boat. It was murder dragging it all the way out here, and we barely got ten minutes of use out of the damn thing before he broke it. He was always breaking shit.”

Dean chuckled softly to himself, low enough to where he hoped he wouldn't disturb the other man. Daryl’s blue eyes were locked onto the water, and he went quiet again. All he did for the longest time was simply stare…

After a few moments, Dean caught the sight of Daryl’s hand moving, reaching out to the water. He knelt down and let his hand just touch the surface, as if to ensure it was really there. There he stayed, letting his fingers skim across the surface, lost to reality.

Nervousness clenched Dean’s stomach as he looked at the sky. It was already dark and the moon was high, and he needed to get another look at Daryl's stitching. Wash out the wound again, probably… Though just as he opened his mouth to ask Daryl why they had come here, the archer had already stood up.

He moved quickly yet nearly silently, shifting past Dean in a near instant. Dean could only see Daryl’s eyes for a moment, but flinched at the cloudiness that masked them. He was shutting himself down again, like he always did when someone got too close.

Sighing softly, Dean followed him back up the ridge and through the bushes, only to see Daryl climbing into the passenger's seat again without a word. Dean followed his lead, sitting in the driver's side and turning the car back on.

God he could not get over the sound of that  _ beautiful  _ engine.

The drive was near silent this time, except when Daryl gave the directions in one word sentences. As they drove back by the house, the lights were off. Sam had probably gone to sleep, and Daryl would follow.

Dean carefully backed the car into the garage, and before it was turned off, Daryl was already out of his seat. Had he done something wrong?

Worry crossed his expression as he shut the driver's door carefully behind him, still holding onto the keys. They were alone, and Daryl didn't seem to be… okay. If he was ever okay. The stiffness in his shoulders had returned, his head low, and he wouldn't meet Dean's eyes.

“Hey, Daryl, if this is about-”

“Shut up,” Daryl hissed, pushing Dean's chest until he was forced up against the wall, only to loom in closer. “Never should’a taken you there.” His fingers clenched into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, yanking him back off the wall, and he looked at Dean with half fondness and half anger.

Those stormy eyes stared into his own, and Daryl’s voice turned into a throaty growl. “Never thought I’d want this again, but then you come along. Dumbass, just like him, but you fuckin’ mean well, don’tcha.”

Swallowing thickly, Dean whispered, “Want what?”

Daryl laughed humorlessly, and firmed his grip on Dean’s shirt, pulling the other man even closer. “This,” he said, his lips millimeters away from Dean’s, his breath ghosting over Dean’s jaw line.

Releasing his grip on the shirt, Daryl slid his hand up behind Dean’s neck, and jerked hard, pulling Dean’s lips to his. The kiss gentled almost immediately, going from a harsh jarring of lips and teeth, to a slow glide.

Dean let out a small moan, and Daryl took advantage of the opening and slid his tongue into Dean’s mouth, a low rumble starting in his chest at the taste of the other man. He mapped out the contours of Dean’s mouth, and after a moment’s hesitation, Dean began to reciprocate. He brought his hand up, avoiding the injured shoulder, and speared the fingers of one hand into Daryl’s hair.

Tugging gently on the soft strands, Dean moaned again, and started backing up. When he felt his body press against the still warm side of the Camaro, he pulled back, and slid up onto the hood, pulling Daryl back in close.

Daryl followed, one hand hitting against the hood and trapping the younger hunter beneath him, while the other tangled into Dean's short hair. It left Dean with his back almost flat against the hood, legs slightly spread and almost inviting the archer.

The older man pressed his knee against the grill of the car, wedging in between Dean's legs and forcing them open more, drawing an approving groan from Dean. The hunger of the kiss was apparent from the low groan deep in Daryl's chest, and just as Dean was putting his arm around Daryl's shoulders and pulling himself up to press against his body that Daryl stiffened.

With a small hurt sound, Daryl pulled his mouth away from Dean’s, his breath harsh in the silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, and lay his head on Dean’s shoulder, fine tremors running through his lean frame. “I want this,” he said, his tongue slipping out of his mouth to swipe against the pulse point on Dean’s throat. “But I don’t think- I can’t-”

Daryl pulled away from Dean, his eyes dark and haunted. They stared down at Dean with such a whirlwind of emotion that he could barely pick out the thick heat, lust, through the overriding presence of the  _ ache _ . An ache that would never go away. He looked away after a moment, turning his gaze onto the garage floor.

“D-Daryl, wait-”

“Make sure you lock the padlock on your way out,” Daryl said, and he walked out of the garage, not bothering to look back.

The sudden change left Dean still panting on the hood of the car, his face flushed and eyes wide. What the hell was that? And why did Daryl leave so quickly? Trying to bury his hurt, he instead watched as the dirty angel wings disappeared into the darkness, but he heard no door opening and closing.

Daryl had gone to the woods. Probably the only place he’d ever feel at home at again.


	5. Hell Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl struggles with loss again, but this time, it takes watching someone else grieve for him to realize what he must do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! Yeah, we're back! And we are getting to the good stuff x3

Daryl’s fingers drummed rapidly on the table, eyes fixed onto the screen of his small phone. It was  _ very _ rare that he contacted anyone, but this was important. His eyes flicked down to the wrinkled, ancient pages he held within his hands, then back to the phone.

It had taken sixteen different libraries, eight private collections, and trying to contact any hunter he remembered the name of, which was like, three people, but he had found it.

Daryl had found the answer to try to save Dean. ...Maybe.

It was a longshot for sure, as it circled around a loophole of how the soul was actually taken down to hell, but it was worth trying. Last he heard a month or two ago, there had been no progress. Dean had accepted his fate long ago, probably the moment he had sacrificed his soul. He had been focused on living each day to the fullest, and taking it a day at a time.

But fuck that. Daryl wasn't going to let anyone else slip away if he could help it.

Huffing to himself, he reached forward and flipped open the phone, typing out a message.

_ D, got important stuff pls txt back _

It was the third time he had tried to prod Dean within the last hour, but it wasn't working. Perhaps they had taken their hunting elsewhere, and they were asleep. It wasn't unimaginable for Sam to try searching other continents for hunters.

Daryl looked up to the clock, watching the seconds tick away. Each second only made his heart clench up, anxiety constricting his throat. No, he needed to know where the  _ fuck  _ they were right  _ fucking _ now.

Taking the phone back in his hand, he stood up from the table, pushing the chair in behind him. His fingers were already tapping out the number he had memorized for years. One of three or four. Bobby would know where the boys were. The damn man knew everything.

He pressed the green button and held the phone against his ear, refusing to believe that he was too late. It hadn’t been six months yet, it  _ couldn't _ have been.

Ring…

Ring…

_ “What?” _

“Bobby, ‘s Daryl. Got somethin’ important. Can't wait. Do you know where Dean is? Can you get a hold of him?”

Several long seconds passed before Bobby responded.  _ “Yeah. Yeah, I know where he is. Can’t get in touch with him.” _

A soft growl rose up his throat that he tried to stifle away. “This is  _ important.  _ I found somethin’, could kill the contract.” 

There was a sharp inhale when Daryl said the word kill, and Bobby choked out a humorless laugh.  _ “You’re about a week too late, Daryl.” _

...Too late?

Daryl stopped breathing, his body freezing where he stood. Too late. A  _ week  _ too late. Only once the edges of his vision began darkening did he suck in a breath and let it out in a shudder.

“...No, no way. I got more time. He just doesn't want to hear from me,” Daryl murmured, forgetting that Bobby was listening on the other side. His thoughts were tumbling from his lips, the only sound echoing off of stark walls of his lonely cabin.

“He's… he's pissed I dented his car. O-or because of the picture. I'm not too late, can't be. He's pissed off, but it's  _ not funny.” _ Daryl's voice suddenly turned hard, anger burning within.

“Fucking  _ tell me  _ where he is!”

_ “Daryl… It’s over. We tried something last minute, and it didn’t work. I… He’s gone.” _

“He's  _ not  _ gone! I found it, I found a spell! Gonna keep the fucking hellhounds off of him, then they can't-...” Daryl broke off, the anger melting away. Bobby didn't lie. He was too smart to lie to Daryl.

But he had to be. He should still have more time. His breathing began to grow shaky, and he swallowed loudly to force it back down. Daryl had been so close to  _ helping.  _ To finally be able to  _ save  _ someone he cared about.

Dean couldn't be…

“...Fuck you, you fucking liar. Don't give a  _ shit  _ what you say, he ain't gone!” His voice dropped low, a growl that was thick with denial. “He can't be  _ gone.” _

His voice finally broke at the last word, and he pressed his hand to his lips. God, he wasn't going to cry. Because Dean wasn't dead. He had finally started talking to Dean again, and Dean wanted Daryl to come hunt. One more hunt.

_“You listen to me,_ boy, _you’re not too big for me to lay you out and tan your backside._ _I was there, and I saw it. And I sure as shit don’t need you going off the rails when I have Sam to deal with, you hear me?”_

Daryl swallowed hard again, forcing down whatever outburst had been bubbling at his lips. He flinched, then reached out to grab onto the table and find his way back to his chair. The phone slipped from his hand and rattled on the table, but he made no move to pick it back up.

He needed to calm down. Collect himself. After all these years, he couldn't let himself be rattled so easily. There were more important matters, even if he couldn't think of any at the moment. 

His hands raked through his hair, tangling and jerking hard, as if the pain would help pull him out of his suffering. Turn the pain to physical. It was all he knew.

Daryl took in a couple deep breaths, and only once his breath stopped shuddering did he yank out one hand and pick up the phone again. “'M sorry, I didn't mean…” Daryl rasped, the apology poisonous and sour on his tongue.

Very few people had earned the right for Daryl to be submissive before them. Rick and Bobby. One half of his support was dead, and the other was hurting. He didn't need to add to it. “...'m sorry,” he mumbled again, closing his eyes as he leaned his cheek against the phone.

Daryl mentally pleaded for Bobby to not hang up, not when it had been so long since he had heard a voice. He wasn't one to beg for attention, but the thought of Dean just… gone. It brought up an ache he thought he had banished so long ago.

_ “Hell, son, I know. I figured you’d be calling sooner rather than later, and I knew you wouldn’t take the news well. Sam told me about that hunt. Told me some other interesting things, too.” _

There was a wheeze that could have been a laugh, but it fell flat. “The fucker… knew he'd squeal,” he murmured under his breath, wincing as he pulled his hand out of his now tangled hair. It wasn't as if Bobby was just finding out he was gay, since… well, Rick. Daryl had known Bobby long before Rick had died, as he had tagged along when Rick went to him for information.

Bobby had seen right through him. He was the only one there when Rick died, his only comfort. And now he was running back to him. “...Fess up, what did he say.”

_ “Something about a ride in the Camaro you never let anyone  _ touch _ , let alone  _ drive. _ And he might have mentioned Dean talking about you. Dean started asking me about you, too. Much more often than someone who wasn’t interested would have.” _

“Shit.” Daryl rubbed his eyes slowly, trying to fend off the feeling of his guts turning into knots. Why did he have to back out? Why did he walk away?

They were questions he constantly asked himself when the two had left. He didn't see them leave. All he did was stay in the woods for what turned out to be a solid week. He already knew the answers, though. It was too much like Rick.

When he had been kissing Dean, all he could think about was  _ Rick.  _ How his lips were different. How his hair wasn't curly. How he didn't smell like the cologne  _ Rick _ wore. How he didn't taste like smoked meat and  _ Rick’s _ favorite beer, the only beer he learned to love. How it wasn't  _ Rick. _

He just couldn't do it, not when he had too many memories of Rick stretched out on the hood of that car, their bodies pressed together, sweat dripping down their backs and-

Daryl shook himself. Dean wasn't Rick. But no matter what he did, Dean still plagued his mind. Dean wasn't supposed to replace Rick, they weren't the same people.

But  _ why  _ did he feel his body react the same.

“...the hell was he asking 'bout? That he couldn't ask me? Fucker had my number.”

_ “He gave me the impression that he’d tried, and you pushed him away. Knowing you, I  _ thought _ he was right. He was going to come out and see you before… Well, before. But things happened, and there wasn’t any time.” _

Of course there wasn't any time. Why didn't Dean tell him it was so close. He would have driven across the entire country if he knew where he was. Every thought about what he could or should have done was another knife deep into his gut. Daryl opened his eyes and stared down at the table, then at the ancient pages. He had been so close.

_ “I know what you’re thinking, and knock it off. It wasn’t your fault. I’ve been telling you that for years, and I mean it double this time.”  _ Bobby paused, and took a deep breath.  _ “He knew what was going to happen. I offered to call you, try and bring you out for more backup. He said you didn’t need to see it. That you had enough guilt already.” _

The knives twisted in his gut, and Daryl's breathing hitched. How the hell did Dean know him that well when he had only seen him twice? Then again, his grief was so obvious that it stained the air, if not the forest.

“I would've come.” Of course Daryl would have. He would have thought there would be a way to fight off the hellhounds they couldn't see. Rick had told him what happened when a demon came to collect a soul.

It wasn't like dying. It was being ripped from the living world and dragged through the earth's crust and thrust into lava. It would be painful the entire time and then hell would begin.

Daryl took in a deep breath, trying to find some excuse, but it all turned to the same thing. Daryl blamed himself for everything. He blamed himself for being beat by his father, that he hadn't hidden the liquor better. Blamed himself for Merle getting his ass drunk and getting killed by a werewolf.

Blamed himself for Rick dying. Blamed himself for not saving him. Blamed himself for going into that basement.

Clearing his throat, he closed his eyes again. “Sam… how's he? Is he…” 

_ Okay _ ? No one would be okay. Swallowing again, he added, “Doing better than I did with…” Didn't go off and blow up a pack of wolves. Nearly bleed himself dry because he refused to stop killing. Constantly flirt with the idea of suicide to the point that it was more common to think about that instead of anything else.

How fast could he bleed out if he cut himself there? Could he die from a fall at this height? If he drove headfirst into that semi, would he feel any pain?

_ “Truth is, I don’t know. He took off out of here with Dean’s body. Refused to salt and burn it like I wanted to do. Said Dean would need it intact for when he came back. I’ve left messages for him, but so far, I haven’t heard anything.” _

Daryl had Sam's number. If he thought it would do any good, he would call him. But he was probably the last one he wanted to speak to. Some stranger that didn't even give Dean the courtesy to use a blanket. A stranger that took time away from him spending it with his brother.

“I… did that with Rick. The hunters burial. Knew it was what he'd want,” Daryl murmured softly, more speaking to himself than anyone else. Did that mean that Rick wouldn't have been able to come back either way? It would figure he would do something to fuck it up.

“Would’a thought Dean would want it. Kinda a big deal. Should have left a…” God, this wasn't a suicide, Dean didn't need a note. But then again, Dean knew he was about to die. Would that technically be a suicide? He was the one who set the contract.

Dean was a person who would have sacrificed himself for someone he cared about. So was Rick. There had been countless times he put himself in the line of fire. Both Daryl and Rick had the scars to tell multiple stories of self sacrifice.

His eyes flicked over to the paper again. “There was really nothing we could do?” he asked, knowing that Bobby would tell him the truth. But Bobby should know by now that Daryl would find some way to blame himself.

_ “Between Sam, Dean and me, we must have scoured thousands of years worth of lore, and spells, and god knows what else. There wasn’t anything more we could’ve done. There wasn’t anything more  _ you _ could’ve done.” _

A long sigh slipped from Daryl, leaning his forehead against the table with a soft thump. There was a silence that neither of them could bear to break, just soaking in the knowledge that for a moment, they were there for each other. The two of them had been through so much turmoil, and Bobby was all Daryl could think of that was left for him in the world.

Rick's family was long gone. Went to wherever the fuck they wanted after he refused to let them take Rick's ashes. They were going to bottle him up. Keep him in a fucking jar. He couldn't do that to Rick.

“...do you mind if I come up there sometime? It's… quiet.” Meaning, could he come up before he lost his mind to grief again.

_ “You’re welcome here any time. Don’t even have to ask. Be good to see you again, it’s been too long since I ate some of that stew of yours.” _

A smirk crossed his face, beginning to untangle a few knives from his gut. How the hell he managed to find people that liked his cooking was beyond him. Even Rick hadn’t liked it, but put on a brave face for him. “I'll bring some. I look like shit, though.”

His eyes flicked to his watch, just barely seeing his reflection in the broken glass. Such deep bags under his eyes, his tangled hair, unkempt facial hair… He looked exactly like a person who had been living in the middle of the woods alone for nearly seven years.

“...Did that bastard tell you he fucking scorched my arms? Only just started to go away.”

His eyes shifted from the watch to his own arm, staring at the fading scars. To be truthful, he wasn't burned all that bad, even if it took forever to heal. He was even using scar cream on his arms.

Though nowhere else. Only on the burns on his arm. The laces on his back, the cuts across his arms, anything else… they would stay as long as he lived. They shaped him, helped him become what he was today.

The burns did nothing but remind him of his failure to protect a single picture.

_ “He said something about being clumsy, and almost getting a bolt in his head. May have been a mention of a picture if I remember right.” _

A soft chuckle slipped from his lips. “Fucker dropped a picture of me ‘n Rick in the fucking fire. Bastard deserved more than a bolt in the head. Right after I told the fucker to not touch my stuff.”

Daryl flicked his eyes back to the clock. He had been talking to Bobby for a while. But he didn't want to put the phone down. The moment he did, the realization that he would not see Dean ever again would sink in. Then the grief would follow.

He didn't want to go through all of that again. It was horrid the first time, and now it would double with every reminder of Rick's death. It was as if he was doomed to being alone.

_ “Seems to me that you wanted him touching your stuff. That’s what Sam thought, anyway.” _

“What the hell would I want him touching my stuff for?” Daryl muttered softly, letting himself close his eyes and listen to Bobby's voice. It had been years since he had seen Bobby. There had been one time after Rick had died that he went to see him, and that had been at Bobby's insistence. That had been followed by a  _ long  _ talk of why Daryl needed to take care of himself.

All Bobby had to see were the thick bandages that covered his body from his constant fighting and taking out his grief on himself.

_ “Shit, Daryl, I never thought you were slow, but maybe I was wrong. You wanted him touching your  _ stuff _. C’mon.” _

“...for fucks sake, Bobby! Sam doesn't- Do you really think he'd-...” Daryl's sentences turned into a bumbling mess, coupled with him hiding his face into the table.

“You  _ know _ I couldn't-...”

_ “Oh cut the shit, Dixon. You didn’t do anything about it because you think you’re betraying Rick, or some bullshit like that. But you and I both know that he would’ve wanted you to be happy. He sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted you to be a damn hermit, living in the middle of the woods, and calling people who worry about you once a year. If they’re  _ lucky. _ ” _

Daryl flinched at the words, squeezing his eyes shut. He wanted to deny everything that Bobby was saying, that he was fine by himself. But he was far from fine. The fact that the highlight of a year was that he had killed a ten-pointed buck and used every bit of it and got a good bit of cash off the rack and hide was enough to prove that.

“'s no different than before I met him,” he murmured softly, and it was actually true. His home was the woods, these woods. He had spent his entire life in this forest, or the ones surrounding Senoia. It was only when he met Rick that he went anywhere farther than the forest, and he had seen Atlanta for the first time.

Then Rick took him further, and further. Took him to see the ocean. Then the other ocean. A desert. Took him to see snow. The  _ snow. _ Daryl’d had dreams of seeing snow for the first time all of his life. Since he had been a child.

Then Rick died, and Daryl barely left his forest to go to town and grab supplies, sell pelts, or anything else. It was pathetic, but so was his life. Everything circled back to his inability to move on.

“...just woulda made shit worse. He woulda died guilty he was leavin’ me.”

Bobby snorted.  _ “You can spew that bullshit to someone else, ‘cause I’m not buying it. I hate to get all touchy-feely on you, boy, ‘cause that’s really not me, but you have to quit telling yourself that you don’t deserve to be happy. Rick died, and that’s fucking awful. Believe me, I know. Don’t let yourself end up like me. Old and alone, without anyone to share your life with.” _

To hear the stern voice speak to him like that was oddly soothing for Daryl, able to let out a deep breath that he had been holding in. To feel like he deserved to be happy was a feeling he only felt for a few short moments in his stretch of life.

“...You got me. 'n Sam. Not ever really alone,” he murmured, already knowing the irony that he was attempting to cheer up Bobby with the same words that he had been told moments ago. It was the one thing that had kept him going through the years, knowing that there was someone who still cared for him out there somewhere. Even if Rick was dead, he believed he was still out there.

His eyes opened again and he looked to the clock. “...geez old man, got nothing better to do than talk to some hermit?” he chuckled softly, his cheek still laying against the table and letting the coldness comfort him. While he didn't want Bobby to leave, he couldn't help but feel he was taking up his time.

Bobby was silent for a moment. The next words that came out of his mouth were laced with sincerity, and affection.  _ “Always got time for you, boy. Always.” _

It was a reaction he couldn't stop if he tried, the wetness that threatened to spill from his eyes building up. Daryl wondered for a moment what he could have done to deserve Bobby after everything he had been through. Bobby had scraped him off of the ground after Rick had died and when he had collapsed under the weight of his past.

Daryl tried to speak, but the emotion choked him and he fell back into silence. But Bobby would know. Both of them had trouble with expressing their emotions, it was what made them so close. Because they understood the other cared, even if they couldn't say it.

Daryl swallowed back the swell of emotions, letting his breath out in a long sigh. There was peaceful silence, then he spoke again. “...Hey did I tell you about when Rick decided to go boating on the shitty lake?”

It was as good of a conversation starter as any, and within moments, Daryl had gone into detail the strain of dragging a boat all the way from the cabin to the lake. Of course they used the pickup, but then it was too big to get through…

Eventually Daryl had moved himself to the couch, curling himself up in the blue blanket he treasured. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the throw pillow, listening to Bobby tell him stories of when he was a hunter.

Then there were stories of Sam and Dean when they were growing up, the difficulty John had in raising two hellish boys. Hours passed as he laid on the couch, constantly curling himself deeper into the blanket and sighing now and then from comfort.

It had been in the middle of Bobby telling the story of his first real hunt that the warmth and comfort lured him into sleep, his mind clearer than it had been in years. Before the story even ended, Daryl interrupted with soft snores, so thick into sleep that not even a pack of werewolves could have woken him.

_ “You are a giant pain in my ass, you know that?” _ Bobby chuckled, listening to the steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing.  _ “Maybe you’ll actually get a good night’s sleep for once. God knows you deserve it. G’night, Daryl. You idjit.” _

\---

Daryl tossed another bag onto his bed, watching the pile grow bigger. He wasn't really sure how he was going to get these to Bobby’s at all, but… maybe it was time to let Rick's car get some fresh air.

He smirked to himself, letting his hand caress over the bedsheets. It would be good to get out of the house he had lived in for seventeen years, rarely leaving unless Rick pulled him out of his forest.

The last time he left had to be about… eight years ago? Their last vacation, if they could call it that. Usually Rick's hunting trips turned into their vacations.

Sitting down onto the bed, he flipped through the bags. He had packed the colt python, his crossbow, bolts… The blanket… god there was rarely anything in his bag that wasn't meant for hunting. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shower gel…

Then there were the clothes. Daryl wasn't one to change clothes often, not when he would sleep in trees and continue on hunting without missing a beat. He packed enough pants to last him a while, and tons of shirts, and boxer briefs. That worked for him.

It was kind of Bobby to allow Daryl to come over, especially with Daryl being unsure when he was going back home. It had been three weeks since he learned of Dean's death and he felt trapped within his own house. For a straight week, he spent the entire time outdoors in the forest.

He just… needed to get away.

Picking up the two bags on the bed, he carried them out of his room and tossed them onto the table. It was starting to get dark outside, but it would take  _ hours  _ to get to Bobby's. May as well get there in the morning and sleep the day away.

Heading over to the cabinet where he hid the keys to the Camaro, Daryl heard tires crunching on his gravel drive. His heart skipped a beat, and for just a moment he thought it was Dean. Giving himself a mental shake, since there was no possible way it was him, Daryl opened the front door.

_ Sam. _ Staggering away from the Impala that was so dirty, Dean must be rolling over in his grave. 

“Sam?” Daryl said, concerned, as he watched the other man stumble, and fall to his knees.

Daryl rushed over and crouched down in front of him. Close up, the smell of alcohol was strong. Like it was oozing out of Sam’s pores. His nose wrinkled at the scent, but he forced himself to reach up and grasp Sam's shoulders in an attempt to steady him. “Sam, what’s wrong?”

Leveling a bleary glare in Daryl’s general direction, Sam frowned. “You mean ‘sides the fact that m’brother’s dead? B’sides that everything’s fuckin’  _ great _ !”

Daryl bowed his head, unable to look at the pain that swam in Sam’s hazel eyes. “I know,” he said, a knot forming in his stomach, making it roil unpleasantly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Everybody’s sorry,” Sam laughed, and he fell forward, his palms landing hard on the gravel drive. “Everybody’s telling me what a good man he was now, but no one gave a shit when we needed their help.”

Lifting up his bleeding palms, Sam stared at them, and then absently wiped away the blood on his shirt. “Why didn’t you come help us, Dare, huh? You cared about Dean right? But you weren’t there. Weren’t there when we needed help.”

Daryl's shoulders stiffened, his hands dropping down to his sides, and he tried his best to keep the growl out of his voice. “You know the phone works two ways. You never called. Never asked for my help.”

Lurching to his feet, Sam stumbled back over to the Impala. He threw his hands up into the air, nearly tipping himself off balance. “Dunno why I came here. You don’t give a fuck.”

“I don’t think so,” Daryl said. He reached out and pulled the keys from Sam’s hand which was much easier than he had expected. “You’re drunk. Not gonna let you kill yourself or someone else by drivin’ around.”

Sam bristled. “What the fuck is it to you, huh?” he growled, shoving Daryl away. “I’m just some random hunter you want off your land. Dean and me both. Just want us gone, right? Gimmie my keys, and I will be.”

“These keys?” Daryl taunted, holding them out in front of his body. “Why don’t you come and get ‘em, tough guy?”

“M’serious, Daryl, gimme the damn keys. Shouldn’ta come here, and I wanna  _ go! _ ”

Daryl nodded. “I can see that you’re serious, but that don’t mean I’m gonna let you go.” He turned away, and headed back up the drive, jingling the keys to the Impala behind him like a lure. “Keys’ll be inside with me. If you want ‘em.”

“Fuckin’ asshole!” Sam yelled, and started to charge at Daryl. 

Sidestepping easily, Daryl continued up the porch steps, and into the house, leaving the door open. Sam was holding onto the stair railing with both hands, swaying like he was at sea.

“I’m thinkin’ you came here lookin’ for a fight, and I’m okay with that. But not now.” Daryl pointed inside, at the couch that Sam had already spent several nights on. “You go sleep off your drunk, and tomorrow, if you still want it, I’ll beat the shit outta you.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Sam slurred, glaring up at Daryl. Sam managed to climb up the remaining steps, and lurch over to the door jamb. Moving with the exaggerated care that’s typical of the very drunk, he walked over to the couch and dropped down on it. 

“Lookin’ forward to it, Sam,” Daryl muttered to himself, as he shut and locked the front door.

Sam nuzzled his face into the cushions of the couch and let out a long sigh, his eyes drooping closed.

Daryl glanced at the bags on the table, and shook his head before going into the kitchen, and pulling out his phone.

Several minutes later, having informed Bobby of his surprise guest, Daryl walked back into the living room. Sam was sprawled out on the couch, his long legs dangling over the edge. He was frowning in his sleep, and small shivers ran up and down his long frame.

Wondering just when exactly the Winchester brothers managed to get under his skin and cause him to break all his rules, Daryl let out a long groan before walking back to the bags. He returned with the blue plaid blanket, unfolding it gently as if it cradled a newborn inside of it. Shaking it out to free any wrinkles, he lay it across Sam’s still form. “Damn fool,” he whispered, smoothing out the creases across Sam’s back. “Just like your brother.”

\--

Daryl didn't bother sleeping. He had had enough coffee to keep him awake for hours since he’d been planning on driving to Bobby's. Now he had used that time in cleaning up the house, making more coffee, unpacking and repacking, and just about anything he could entertain himself quietly that didn't involve leaving the house.

Though he was sure that Sam would wake up with a splitting headache and hangover, which is why the lights were off and a glass of water and a couple aspirin sat on the counter. He wouldn't be there for when Sam woke up, though. Chances are he would just leave the moment he could now that he was no longer drunk.

Well, he would if Daryl didn't keep the keys with him.

They sat on Daryl's nightstand, while Daryl was sitting atop his bed, sharpening his favorite knife. It probably looked more threatening than he had initially intended, with bolts, knives and guns just tossed about on the blankets and pillows. But it would help wake Sam up for sure.

Daryl kept a sharp ear out, though, knowing that if Sam still acted like he was drunk or even so much as hurt his blanket that he would be thrown out to the forest. But he had also left a trash can by the couch, just in case he had the urge to vomit up the booze.

He hadn't forgotten about Sam saying they were used to rotgut, and he wasn't taking any chances.

When Sam woke the next morning, he knew he wasn't alone. Wherever he was before he’d drowned himself in liquor was now a very distant memory. He woke on a couch that seemed just familiar enough to confuse him. He wasn't in a motel or passed out in the Impala.

Rubbing his hands across his face, he opened bleary eyes, and looked around. After taking in his surroundings, he realized pretty quickly where he was. Looking down, he nearly had a heart attack, and guiltily shoved the blanket that covered him away. Bile rose in his throat at the sudden movement, and he grabbed the conveniently placed trash can without a second to spare.

Soon after he was done, Daryl walked down the hallway. He was still casually wiping down the blade of his knife. Sam’s heaving had easily alerted the other man that his houseguest was awake. Daryl smirked at Sam. “Bet you feel like shit.”

“Oh God,” Sam groaned, clutching onto the trash can like a lifeline. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Uh huh. Heard shit like that from people before. Never seems to work out that way.” Daryl moved over to the end of the couch, where Rick’s blanket was balled up in the corner. He picked it up carefully, turning it over and then began folding it again. “Better not have gotten puke on this. Would hate to have to kill you, and then clean up that mess you’re makin’.”

Sam just groaned again, his head nearly inside the garbage can. “Kill me, oh shit,” he said, more heaves wracking his large frame.

“Naw,” Daryl smirked, enjoying the hell out of Sam’s abject misery. “Show wouldn’t be nearly as good.” 

When the vomiting stopped several minutes later, Daryl waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom. “Go take a shower and brush your damn teeth. You stink like unwashed ass.”

Not feeling quite bad enough to let a line like that pass by without responding, Sam chuckled. “Been around a lot of unwashed ass, huh Dixon?”

“Shut up and go clean up. Your stench is gonna start to draw flies.”

Sam was nearly to the bathroom when Daryl spoke up again, his voice serious. “We need to have a talk when you’re done in there, so prepare yourself.”

Sam flinched, but nodded, and headed into the bathroom.

Half an hour later, a much cleaner Sam came out of the bathroom wearing a pair of Daryl’s old sweatpants, and shirt with the sleeves torn off. The shirt was several sizes too small, but it was a much better option than the probably vomit spattered flannel.

“I feel like I’m wearing doll clothes,” he muttered, flexing his muscles experimentally.

“Fuck you, Gigantor. We can’t all be freaks.”

Daryl hid a smirk behind his hand, and gestured to the couch. Once he got his smirk under control, he leveled a glare onto Sam. His knife remained in his hand, and he absentmindedly ran the rag across the blade. “First off, why did I only hear about what happened after the fact?”

Shrugging, Sam settled himself into the overstuffed cushions of the couch. “Didn’t think you’d care,” he said, petulantly.

“Did you lose some IQ points since I saw you last? ‘Cause I thought you were the smart one, but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sam glowered up at Daryl, who’d sat himself down on the coffee table. His eyes flicked to the knife, then looked back at Daryl. “Figured once Dean wasn’t around for you to eye fuck, you wouldn’t want to bother with me anymore. Been nothing but trouble for you.”

“Hell yeah, you and your brother were trouble, but I gave  _ you _ my number didn’t I? So tell me, why’d I do that?” Daryl asked, throwing his hands up in the air.

Cracking a small smile, Sam muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Daryl said, raising a hand to his ear.

“I said,” Sam scowled, “That I caught you checking out my ass once or twice.”

Daryl growled, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s none of your goddamned business, now is it? Keep your bullshit theories to yourself.”

“Oh screw you, Dixon. You don’t get to maul my brother in a garage, then walk off with barely a word, and get to be all high and mighty!” Sam's words turned surprisingly tense, his eyes narrowing down.

Daryl got up from the coffee table and began pacing the room, running his fingers through his hair, and tugging at the strands. “Your brother should have kept his fuckin’ mouth shut. Ain’t no one’s business what happened or  _ didn’t _ in that garage.” His glared at Sam, but forced himself to slip the knife into the sheath at his side. The last thing he needed was to be armed while Sam was pissing him off.

“Come off it, man. Dean told me. He was so fucking giddy afterwards, I thought he was going to start spewing out  _ poetry _ .” Sam’s eyes darkened, and he glared at Daryl again. “Until you never fucking came back, anyway. You know, we waited here for another day, hoping you’d grow some balls.”

Fists clenched at his sides, Daryl tensed. He turned his head away, waving off the accusation. “I had shit to do. Couldn’t wait around here for your dumb asses to get a fuckin’ clue.”

“Sure you did,” Sam sighed. “Dean only moped around for weeks after we left here. Kept looking at the phone, and telling me that he was sure you’d call.” Sam looked away, staring blankly at the window. “He left you a message. With me. When he finally realized you wouldn't or couldn’t call.”

Daryl felt his insides freeze at Sam’s words, stopping the spiteful growl that Dean could have easily  _ called _ him. He had a hard time forcing any sound past his frozen lungs. “Wh-” He cleared his throat, and tried again. “What did he say?” 

Sam continued to stare out the window, his eyes glazed over. “Said I had to make sure that, whatever happened, you were okay. That he thought there was something between the two of you, and you might not take a bad outcome well.” Sam looked over at Daryl, and whispered, “Said to tell you he understood why you walked away.”

Daryl's breath caught in his throat, unable to look away from Sam's distant gaze. The pain and loss of losing his brother, then being forced to repeat words that shouldn't have been held back in the first place… if only he hadn't been a goddamn idiot.

His teeth ground together, and his head snapped away. “The fucking… I would have-...” His words got caught, and his jaw clenched. The words wouldn't come, the explanation to why he ran away like a  _ coward _ , abandoning Dean in the garage, shutting himself away…

Everything he did made it worse. It would have been better that he had never tried at all. It was  _ stupid. _ To think he'd ever…!

Daryl's body moved suddenly, whipping around to the fireplace and grabbing the first picture on the left, of him and Rick, before violently throwing it to the wall. It crashed, glass sprinkling the wood floor.

The only reason he hadn't grabbed another was that he was caught by the blue eyes that looked back at him, that goddamn grin on his face. Rick frozen in time, the warmth radiating from the way he looked at the past him. Hissing loudly, he turned away from it, instead kicking the wooden frame of the broken picture. It skidded across the floor, landing somewhere in the kitchen.

“I shouldn't have fucking…!” he growled under his breath, his thin control already slipping away. Dean knew all along, knew that he lusted after him like a madman, but why didn't he stop him! Why did Dean care! Why couldn't he  _ not  _ care!

“After all the shit you gave Dean for  _ accidentally _ messing up a picture, you just smash one? Nice,” Sam said, frowning.

A scowl crossed Daryl's face as he glared back at him, his hands curling into fists. “Don't you fucking  _ dare. _ I should fucking shoot you for being here at all!”

Sam grinned almost maniacally, and stood up. He walked closer to Daryl, towering over him. “Do it. Go ahead.” He held his arms out to the side, palms open. “I don’t have any weapons. I won’t fight you.” Narrowing his eyes, he leaned in closer to Daryl, and screamed in his face. “Do it, Dixon!”

The scream echoed through the cabin, and so did the animalistic snarl that followed. Daryl lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into Sam's chest to try to knock him down to the ground. It only pushed him several feet back. He needed a fight. Needed to be punished.

“I’m not going to give you what you want, you masochistic asshole! You want to beat me up, go right the fuck ahead,  _ I _ deserve it!” Sam’s face fell, losing the slight edge of darkness it had held for a moment. When he spoke again, his words were softer, and filled with self loathing. “I told him I’d save him, and I fucked it up. He saved me so many times, but when it was my turn I couldn’t do it.”

_ “Shut up!”  _ Daryl roared, pushing Sam to the point that he had knocked him down onto the wood floor. The words were too familiar, too close to the same that spiralled through his head so many years ago. He stood above him, his feet on either side of Sam's stomach. His hands remained clenched, his jaw tight and twitching, but his eyes were welling up with tears.

Bobby had told him to be a man. Men didn't cry.  _ Dixon's  _ didn't cry. But everything was coming back with a vengeance.

Leaning down over Sam, Daryl grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him up, shaking him. “Be a fucking man and fight me!”

Sam smiled up at him, but it was all teeth. “I think we’re both punishing ourselves just fine without adding bruises and broken knuckles to the mix, don’t you?” He let his head fall back, and thump onto the floor, his body going completely limp. “But you do what you have to do.”

Daryl bared his teeth at Sam, his hands twisting into the shirt before he abruptly let Sam go, stepping away. “Fuck you! Fuck your brother, fuck the demons, fucking  _ fuck everything _ !” His voice broke as he turned away, his steps heavy as he stomped away to his room, then came back moments later.

His crossbow was hoisted over his shoulders, and his other hand holding the Colt Python. He didn't bother looking down at Sam, the only thing he could think about was that he had to  _ leave _ . He had to  _ hunt. _ He had to  _ fight. _

“It’s not going to help, you know,” Sam said, tilting his head back to look up at Daryl. “Running away, I mean. All your problems are still going to be there when you get back.”

“And if I don't come back? What if I just don't come the fuck back? That's all I'm good at, just fucking running away! Can't fucking save Rick, can't help Dean, can't do  _ shit  _ but run away!” Daryl's voice rattled the cabin, his eyes burning down at Sam. His hand gripped harder around the Colt, before he pointed it at Sam. “You can't do shit either! Fucking getting drunk off your ass, could have gotten your ass killed!”

“Guess we’re both stupid then,” Sam said, completely ignoring the gun pointed in his direction. He sat up and rested his arms on his knees. “Neither one of us could save the most important person in our lives, and,” he peeked up at Daryl, his eyes shrewd, “I’m guessing, that both of us would sacrifice ourselves in a heartbeat if it would save them.”

A painful silence stretched between them, and the tip of the pistol began to tremble. Daryl visibly swallowed, and when he spoke next, his voice was a croak.

“It shouldn't have been this way. Should have been me. Should have been someone other than Dean. Other than Rick. I don't fucking care who, but why did it have to be  _ them!” _ Daryl choked, then forced himself to turn away. His breath was shaking now, the gun lowering down to his side again. “Why does it  _ always  _ have to be them. The ones that… that… Can have a fucking life without us.”

“I know why I’m cursed.” He looked over at Daryl, and shrugged before getting up from the floor. “From the time I was six months old, everything in my life has lead here. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it. Might as well give in, right?”

Daryl swallowed hard, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to fight the words that came pouring out anyway. “Pa was fuckin’ right 'bout me, too. Can't do shit, shouldn't have been born. Should have saved us the trouble and just…” He lifted the gun to his temple, and mouthed the word, “ _ Bang _ ”. The gun remained at his temple for a moment before he dropped it.

“Two people the world would’ve been better off without, though I’m not quite sure of that in your case. Shit. I need another drink.” Sam raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’ll get rid of this headache.” Looking around the room, he asked, “Did I have my bag when I showed up?”

“I don't fucking know…” Daryl groaned, still standing mere inches away from the door. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his body preparing him for a fight was already fleeing, leaving him aching and tired. “You got a fucking aspirin on the table. Shove it down your throat and shut up.” Daryl slowly slid his knife into the sheath at his side, then ran his fingers through his bangs. Everything was just turning into a mess he couldn't clean, and he wasn't sure how long he could put up with the aftermath.

“I have a bottle of Hunter’s Helper in that bag. Maybe two, if I didn’t drink it all. Since I don’t remember showing up here, I’m guessing I probably drank it.” Sam’s eyes widened, and he sucked in a quick breath. “Oh fuck, I drove the Impala out here drunk, didn’t I? If I got any scratches on it De-” His voice broke off, and Sam looked down at the floor. A small, humorless chuckle came out of his mouth. “Never mind. Guess it doesn’t matter.”

Daryl's head jerked up at Sam's final words, and he crossed the space between them in a few strides. Even with Sam being easily half a foot taller than him, he still reached up and grabbed hard onto his shirt. Daryl’s eyes were narrow, unshed tears giving them a sort of manic gleam, but there was a strange clarity within them.

“Don't give me that shit. You take care of her like a fucking  _ queen. _ Don't you  _ dare  _ fuck off on what Dean cared about. He cared about you, he cared about the Impala, and he cared about hunting. It. Fucking.  _ Matters. _ ” His words were quiet but deep, rumbling in his chest like a beast wishing to be let loose.

“Don't you  _ dare  _ let anything touch her. She was his baby, and now she's yours. Dean would want you to take care of her, and he'd want you to keep going.” The words were tumbling out faster than he could think clearly, already feeling his heart grow heavy. But he had to tell Sam. Even if it was too late for himself.

Sam blinked, opening his mouth to respond but Daryl gave him a quick shake. “Don't talk,  _ listen. _ I didn't listen. I spent seven fucking years in this cabin, don't you  _ dare  _ be like me. Because all you're going to do is disappoint him. We're already disappointments enough as it is. We got nothing to lose.”

Emotions built up into his throat, but he choked them down. His breath was shaking at this point, and he knew he would soon be overwhelmed but he  _ had  _ to tell Sam. His hands were trembling now, to much to keep his grip firm, so he released Sam’s shirt only for his hand to cover the broken silver watch that was always on his wrist.

“You… you gotta keep finding something to fight for. I've struggled with surviving. It ain't easy. I lost a shit ton of times.” Daryl swallowed, suddenly aware of each of the scars that laced his arms, but there were too many to detect which ones were self inflicted and which were by the hands of another.

“You fucking told me there's a reason I'm here. There's a reason you're here too. Just fucking  _ find  _ it.”

“I know my reason,” Sam said, his eyes hard. “Lilith. I’m going to kill her, and any demon that stands between us.”   
  
Daryl's eyes narrowed at Sam, feeling his stomach churn. Killing a demon was near impossible. “And when she’s dead? What then?”

“I don’t expect to walk away from that fight. If I do, I’ll figure it out. There’s always going to be something to hunt.” Patting his pockets, and coming up empty, Sam held out his hand. “Keys.”

After hesitating for a moment, Daryl gestured to his open bedroom door. “On the nightstand.” He ducked his head, avoiding the other man’s eyes, stepping to the side to allow him to pass.

Sam nodded, and walked down the hallway into the other room. He turned to the bedroom, only to pause a couple steps into the room. There was an arsenal spread out on the bed. Pistols, shotguns, bows and arrows, knives of all shapes and sizes. His eyes widened, and he turned to look back at Daryl who had followed him into the room. “Is that C4?”

Daryl grunted then shrugged. “Never know what you’re gonna need on a hunt. Best to be prepared.”

“What kind of hunt have you been on where you needed  _ C-fucking-4 _ ?”

Daryl’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. “Me ‘n Rick found a nest of ghouls up in Colorado one time. They was holed up in a cave. Blew that shit to kingdom come.”

Despite himself, Sam was impressed. He made a mental note to look into getting some of that for himself. Bypassing the long, red-handled machete that was sitting on the nightstand, one he recognized from their vampire hunt, he picked up the keys that lay behind it.

“Thanks for letting me sleep it off here. I know you’re not much for company.”

“Didn’t give me much choice,” Daryl scoffed. “Wasn’t gonna let you run off when there was about a 99% chance you’d kill yourself or someone else.”

“Still. Thanks.” Sam pocketed the keys, and glanced at the tools laid out on the bed once more.

Daryl cleared his throat awkwardly, then stepped up towards the bed. Gazing across the arsenal of weapons, he plucked out a combat knife before holding it out to Sam, handle facing him. “When you find that fucker, do me a favor. Shred her. Gouge out her eyes. Shove this in her temple. Leave it in her skull, I don't care. Make her pay.”

His eyes shuttered, trying to hide the pain that was making its way through his system. His breath was sucked in through his teeth, then moved his hand closer. “...needed someone I trust to take this knife away for a long ass time. Put it to good use. An’ I don’t think I can stand to look at it any longer.”

Daryl's eyes didn't dare look away from Sam's, not when he knew the moment he looked down at the knife that he would change his mind. It was his punishment, to keep the knife that had ended his better half. But something told him that it had a better use. Maybe this was it.

Gingerly taking the knife from Daryl, Sam nodded. He gazed across the blade, flicking his gaze back to Daryl, and the archer knew there were questions. But Sam had the good sense to turn away. Still wearing the borrowed clothes, he headed for the door. “I’ll send your clothes back when I can. You won’t miss them too much, will you?”

Dary shook his head as he followed Sam out of the bedroom. “Keep ‘em.”

Pausing by the front door, Sam turned back to face Daryl, and held out his hand. He was hoping for a more positive outcome with this handshake than he’d gotten from the first time they had met.

After looking at Sam’s outstretched hand for a good minute, Daryl slowly extended his own. His voice was unexpectedly thick when he spoke again. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam said, his own voice shaky. He squeezed Daryl’s hand gently once, and let it go. Wiping a hand over his eyes, Sam turned and walked through the door. He got into the car as quickly as he could, and started her up before looking back at where Daryl stood on the porch. “See you ‘round, Dare.”

Daryl’s eyes followed the car until it was out of sight. He was almost positive, if Sam kept on the way he was going, he’d be dead within the year. Shaking his head, Daryl headed back into the house. 

Over the course of the next hour, he loaded up the Camaro with everything he could possibly need for an extended time away. Finally done, he slid in behind the wheel, and started the car, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the rumble of the engine. He had a lot of driving to do. But he couldn't help but glance to the empty passenger's seat, feeling that all too familiar ache in his chest.

“Time to stretch her legs, Rick,” he murmured, gunning the engine. “Let’s see what she can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops! Double parter AGAIN!
> 
> But youn are really going to like the next part. There's gonna be some tag updates for sure. 
> 
> ;3


	6. Hell Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl has been living with Bobby. Life became quiet after Dean died, but there is still a hole in his chest. It's on a quiet September night that the world is turned upside down...
> 
> Or maybe, right side up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a look at those juicy juicy new tags. ;3

The door to the porch slammed open, smashing against the wall and making it rattle. “Bobby! C'mere!” Daryl's voice echoed throughout the house, followed by a dragging sound. It was accompanied by soft swearing and grunting from the hunter, then came a heavy thunk.

“What the hell, boy,” Bobby yelled, coming around the corner and looking around for Daryl. “You’re gonna wake the damn dead with all that racket.”

By the time Bobby had rounded the corner, he was met with a rather… odd sight. Daryl was waiting there, a few feet away from the door that was still being held open by the head of the buck Daryl had pulled over his shoulder.

His bare hands were wrapped tight around the back ankles of the buck, leaving him hunched over by the strain of dragging the dead animal into the house. Who knows how long he had been dragging it, but judging by his heavy breathing, it was enough to get even Daryl exhausted.

From his first look at Daryl, it seemed like he’d had to fight a lion for the buck, only winning after he had torn the beast limb from limb. Blood coated his body. There were smears across his face, and his entire back was drenched. Thankfully he had not worn his vest when he went hunting right at dawn, instead ruining an old black sweatshirt. What Bobby immediately noticed, though, was the clear trail of blood leading out the door and towards the forest that he had come out from. There were clear stains on the porch where he stood.

But what the blood couldn't cover was the shy smile that covered Daryl’s face. His eyes were brighter than they had been in years. The buck was almost twice Daryl’s weight, and could feed them for a  _ month.  _ The rack couldn't fit through the door, getting itself caught on the doorframe which had made the  _ thunk _ . “I-I got it. Chased the fucker for a mile. Broke, like, four fucking bolts to bring 'em down,” Daryl panted, his voice as close to excited as Bobby had ever heard.

Bobby frowned, and looked at the blood trail. “Did you have to drag it up here, and get blood and deer mess all over the damn porch? Jesus, Daryl, no one ever teach you nothin’?” 

Daryl blinked, his face falling. His hands adjusted on the ankles of the buck, trembling slightly under the weight of the animal. “...I-I’ll clean it up, just was gonna…” He swallowed, now wishing he could just dump the buck off his back, but it would just get more blood on the ground.

“Follow me, ya idjit,” Bobby sighed, shouldering his way past Daryl, stepping over the rather impressive rack, and walking off the porch. He gestured to the side of the house with a pointed look, and continued walking until he reached a large shed. 

Dragging the buck out the door again took time, seeing as how Daryl nearly had to snap off an antler to dislodge it from the doorframe. He was almost obsessively careful as the buck was dragged down from the porch, watching to make sure he didn't break any of the branches of the rack. Finally pulling it off the porch, he dragged it around the corner and spotted Bobby by the shed Daryl had not used before.

After opening the door to the shed, Bobby turned to Daryl and held out his arms. “This is where you bring a deer to butcher it, son. All tools you need are right here, and you don’t get blood all over my house.”

Bobby then smiled softly. “Now, how about you hang that up over there, and cut me off a nice chunk, so I can roast it for dinner.”

Daryl didn't face Bobby, his head down, but then stopped in his tracks. He blinked, unsure at first at Bobby's words, before he gave a small smirk. 

“What kinda meat you want?” he asked, trying to keep the pride from bleeding into his voice as he began the long process of pulling the buck into the shed, then wrapping a chain tightly around its ankles to haul it up. Daryl couldn't help but wonder if the shed was tall enough. This was probably the biggest deer he’d ever gotten.

“Hook it into that pulley over there, and turn this,” Bobby said, pointing to a hand crank set off to the side. “Once you get it skinned, give me some of the backstrap. I’ve got a recipe I’ve been wanting to try out.”

Seeing the incredulous look Daryl shot his way, Bobby scowled. “What? So I like to cook from time to time. Shut up.”

Daryl snickered under his breath, before groaning loudly as he finally pushed the buck off of his back. Chances were that his back would have something to say about him not heading back to Bobby’s place to find something to drag the buck back home. Deciding he would carry it himself, and save time. The adrenaline of the hunt certainly hadn't lasted long enough to get it home.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed softly, rubbing at his lower back. His teeth gritted together before he forced himself to grab onto the crank, starting the slow process of hauling up the deer. “Gimme half an hour,” he muttered softly, eyeing the blades all across the walls, almost giddy at being able to skin and gut the monster of a deer.

“I’ll be inside. I think it’s past time for my weekly call to Sam. Not that he’ll answer. Just holler when you’re done.” Bobby turned on his heels, and headed back inside, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.

“If he answers, tell 'm to fuck off for me,” Daryl chuckled, his eyes focused on the deer. He stepped around it, looking at it from all angles before he grabbed the hooked knife. Taking in a deep breath, he carefully located the bottom of the sternum before pushing the hook inside. He had to be careful. Everything would be used.

If he wasted any of it, it was just as bad as murder. That was one of the rare things Pa taught him between his drinking and beatings.

He grunted softly as he pulled the blade up through the flesh, but his heart fluttered at the sound of the hide tearing. The hunting had been poor over the last few months, fall setting in not long after he arrived at Bobby's house. There was no snow yet, which was a disappointment, and just started to become chilly on occasions. 

Though it was true Daryl didn't  _ need  _ to hunt for food, he got restless when he stayed inside too long. Hunting with Bobby was an experience for sure, and he couldn't help but wish that his own father had done the same. To have someone proud of his hunting skill, gutting their kills together, cooking them… It was different than it had been with Rick.

Bobby was the closest thing he'd had to a father his entire life, and Daryl tried his best to make him proud.

Nearly an hour later, Daryl had just finished his final cut and set the last of the meat aside, when he heard a shout from inside the house. Dropping the leg quarters onto the closest surface, Daryl sprinted for the house, his knife held tight in his hand. “Bobby!” he yelled.

Tearing around the corner and slamming himself through the door, his knife raised to combat whatever threat Bobby had come up against, he skidded to a halt. Daryl's mouth dropped open. 

Bobby was hugging someone? What the hell… 

“Uh… Guess I’ll come back later then?” Daryl muttered, already lowering the blade and feeling embarrassment wash over his body.

Bobby pushed the other man away at the sound of his voice, then scowled at Daryl. “Oh shut up, Dixon.” 

The other man stiffened, and inhaled sharply. Daryl couldn't see his face, since he was standing on the other side of Bobby's body. “Dixon?” the man said, and slowly moved into Daryl’s line of sight.

The breath was knocked out from Daryl's chest instantly, like a heavy weight had slammed into his ribcage. The hunter took a step back, the hand holding the butcher knife shaking. No. It couldn't be.

The blue eyes widened, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The shoulders. The hair. The  _ eyes. _

It was  _ Dean. _ ...but it couldn't be.

It had to be another trick.

His hand tightened onto the handle of the blade, and a murderous glare took over his face. “Bobby, get back!” Daryl snarled sharply, then lunged a few steps forward. He refused to let another person he cared about die because of a shifter. Not again.

The knife was clenched tightly in his hand, blood still coating the blade, and his body almost shimmered with the thick gore that covered him. There were still pieces of flesh across his body, like he’d just come back from slaughtering an entire pack of wolves. It wouldn't be the first time.

But now he would destroy a shifter that threatened his family again.

The creature Bobby called Dean backed away, his hands held out in front of him. “Daryl, it’s me, it’s  _ really _ me!”

Ignoring Dean’s words, Daryl advanced, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl. “Yeah fuckin’ right. I’m gonna gut you, like I shoulda done to the last shifter I came across.”

“Fuck!” Dean held out his hand. “Give me the knife, Bobby,  _ now. _ ” Bobby, who had been moments away from verbally tearing Daryl apart, instead handed Dean the knife from his belt.

Dean held up the knife, the late evening light glinting off the blade. “This is a silver knife, Daryl. If I was a shifter, would I be able to do this?” Taking a deep breath, Dean slid the knife across his forearm, above an already bleeding cut, drawing out another thin line of blood.

Daryl stiffened up, eyes widening, before they narrowed again. “Not a shifter, then. But you’re somethin’,” Daryl growled, moving closer.

“Jesus, and I thought I had problems trusting people.” Dean backed up against the wall, dropping the knife on the floor, and putting his hands back up. “Bobby did all the tests, man, c’mon!”

Flicking confused eyes over to the other man, Daryl got a confirming nod. “I did, Daryl. I think… I think it really is him,” Bobby said, his eyes never leaving Dean.

“See! Put the knife down, Dare. It’s really me.”

Daryl's eyes scorched into Bobby for a moment, his nostrils flaring with rage. If this was another  _ goddamn trick _ and they thought this was funny…! He bared his teeth again, looking back to the man claiming to be Dean.

“...Cristo,” he growled softly, his mind searching for any possible test Bobby may not have done.

Dean only blinked, staying still. So he wasn't a demon. And he wasn't a shifter. With the knife still held tight within his hand, Daryl allowed it to lower just slightly, yet the point remained pointed at the creature. “Fucker,” he grunted, taking a few steps closer.

Reaching into his sweatshirt pocket, he grabbed the handle of the Colt Python he couldn't bear to be without. He pulled it out, quickly pointing it at Dean's forehead. He was close enough to Dean that the barrel was a mere inch away. He would  _ not  _ miss. “Whose gun is this. Answer quick.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Rick’s. That beautiful piece of American muscle in front of the house was Rick’s, too. Even though you did most of the work on it.” A light blush spread across Dean’s cheekbones and he ducked his head. “I like the car for a whole nother set of reasons though,” he whispered, looking at Daryl from the corner of his eye.

Daryl's heart clenched up into his throat at his words, his mouth falling opening. He hadn't expected the creature to know  _ anything  _ about that. And the car... “What the fuck…” Daryl blinked slowly, fully expecting Dean to disappear between one blink and the next. The words slipped out without his permission, his desperate hope making them shake. “It’s really you?”

Dean walked closer to Daryl, and whispered, “Yeah, Dare. It’s really me.” His eyes held Daryl's, softening. There was warmth in his gaze, warmth that Daryl never thought he would see again.

There was a moment of silence between the men, Daryl's eyes darting from Bobby, Dean, Bobby, then back at Dean again. His eyes remained there, waiting for the moment that Dean would lunge for his throat, to end his life after luring him so close.

But at this point… it was a risk he was willing to take.

The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the porch. Just for safety, Bobby made sure to kick the blade to the side, far out of potential reach. Daryl swallowed hard, the pistol in his hand beginning to shake, before it slowly lowered.

“...Dean,” he whispered softly, his voice breaking. The Colt Python fell from his fingers, landing at his feet but he didn't even look down.

There was still so much space between them, and Daryl couldn't take it any longer. He took a step forward. Then another. Then he reached out a trembling hand. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he tried to hold them back. Carefully, his fingers touched Dean's cheek, as if to check that he was really there.

It left a streak of blood, but Daryl couldn't care less. All he cared about was righting every wrong he’d made before Dean faded away again.

Dean lifted his hand and brought Daryl’s into greater contact with his face, nestling into his palm. “Bobby, you may want to avert your eyes.”

“Oh hell, don’t get any stains on my porch. That shit don’t wash out.” The door shut loudly behind him, and Dean pulled Daryl closer.

“Daryl, would you mind doing me a huge favor?”

Staring at Dean through dazed eyes, Daryl nodded, his thumb rubbing along Dean’s cheekbone.

Leaning in closer, Dean’s breath ghosted along Daryl’s lips. His breath hitching, Daryl lifted his other hand and framed Dean’s face between his palms. 

“You want to kiss me now, or do I really need to ask?” Dean grinned.

Closing the miniscule gap between them in less than a heartbeat, Daryl pressed his lips to Dean’s, reveling in the other man’s loud groan. His thumbs still rubbing across Dean’s cheekbones, Daryl licked at the seam of his lips. Hands clenching, Daryl growled, “Open.”

Without waiting for Dean to respond to the command, Daryl sucked Dean’s bottom lip between his own, his tongue laving over the plump flesh. Biting down gently, Daryl let out a groan of his own when Dean opened his mouth, and sealed their lips together.

Daryl was frantically kissing Dean as if this dream could end at any moment, his tongue mapping out every contour of the other man’s mouth and committing it to memory. He licked across his teeth and dragged his tongue across Dean’s lips, biting down harder and harder every time.

Pulling back a fraction, Daryl panted into Dean’s mouth. “I never thought I’d see you again, and you never called to ask for any help, and you just fuckin’  _ died _ and I couldn’t do anything about it and it nearly fuckin’ killed me you assho-”

Cutting off Daryl’s rant by licking across his pulse point, Dean breathed out his apology across Daryl’s skin, making him shudder. “I’m sorry. I was going to, but the last few days were… Hectic.”

Daryl snorted, and rested his head in the crook of Dean’s neck. “I can’t believe you’re here. It’s not possible.”

“You’re telling me. And look at me! I was not looking my best when I-” Dean cut off short, then cleared his throat. “I wasn’t looking my best. But I look fucking great now. Not a scratch anywhere.” Dean flinched a bit. “Well, almost no scratches.”

Immediately the archer stiffened up,his hands clenching onto Dean. “Where?” Daryl demanded. “Show me.” He pulled away from Dean and looked at him expectantly. 

Dean sighed softly, glancing down to his arm, then he yelled for Bobby. “Hey, Bobby! You’re gonna want to see this!”

When Bobby walked out onto the porch, looking at Dean curiously, Dean rolled up his sleeve.

“What the fuck is that?” 

“The hell?” Daryl growled softly, his eyes narrowing down at Dean's arm. He reached forward and grabbed it, rotating to get a better look at it in the low light. It was an obvious handprint, burned into his flesh.

“...who did this to you,” Daryl grunted, running his fingers across the mark. His fingers traced across the burn, then he placed his own hand against the imprint.

His eyes lifted back up, his teeth already showing beneath his lips in the beginning of a snarl. He needed to know who did this. Who dared to touch Dean.

All Dean gave him was a shrug. “I woke up with it. By the way, why did you bury me? I don’t get a hunter’s funeral?”

Bobby shrugged. “Sam refused. Said you’d need a body when you got back.”

“Dammit, Sammy, what did you do…” Dean groaned and took a step away from Daryl, slipping from his hands. He paced restlessly back and forth, his fingers raking through his hair repeatedly. “I woke up in a box. Dug my way out, and the trees around me were just leveled. Like a bomb went off.”

Daryl grunted softly, running his fingertips through his still bloodied bangs. “Sam went off the grid a while.” He bit back the comment that Sam had shown up on his front steps drunk off his ass, or that Daryl had been just as close to losing himself in grief. His eyes flicked to Bobby's, then away.

Bobby knew how close Daryl was to the edge. Chances were that Sam was dangling over it still.

“Shit, we need to find Sam,” Daryl hissed softly, his eyes widening. Dean made a quick call to the cell company to get Sam’s gps turned on, and less than five minutes later they had a location.

“How’d you know Sam was gonna use that name?” Bobby asked, following behind Dean into the next room.

Dean laughed. “You kiddin’ me? What don’t I know about that kid…”

\--

Watching Sam and Dean hold onto each other like their lives depended on it made Daryl tear up a little. He’d never admit it, of course. Didn’t want to damage his asshole reputation. He’d caught Sam’s eye at one point when they were all talking, and answered Sam’s silent question with a shake of his head. No, he didn’t tell Dean what happened at his cabin, and no he wasn’t planning on talking about it either. Sam seemed to visibly relax after that, and Daryl was positive Dean had noticed.

The car ride back to Sioux Falls was full of awkward pauses in conversation. Dean was obviously uncomfortable talking about anything having to do with hell, and Sam was equally uncomfortable talking about anything that he’d done in the four months Dean had been gone. Bobby and Daryl were sort of caught in the middle. Unsure where to step in a conversation that was littered with landmines. 

Daryl was only sure of one thing. The looks he and Dean were exchanging in the rear view mirror were enough to fog up all the windows. Squirming on the seat, Daryl sent another heated glare Dean’s way, earning a snort from Bobby, and a confused look from Sam.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, eyes flicking between Dean and Daryl.

“Oh, didn’t you know, Sam?” Bobby asked, his eyes twinkling. “These two idjits made out on my porch. Think there’s gonna be some noise at my place tonight. I got some earplugs you can borrow if you want.”

Daryl groaned loudly, barely holding back from hitting Bobby on the arm in an attempt to beat away the confession. But instead he caught a pair of smoldering eyes in the rearview mirror and stiffened up, trying hard to control the stifling heat that was blooming in his gut.

“For fucks sake, Bobby,” Daryl groaned softly, forcing himself to look out the window and trying to  _ slowly  _ cross his legs and not make it quite obvious. It failed, judging by Dean's chuckle and the grin on Bobby's face.

Sam echoed the groan, looking at Dean from the passenger's seat. “ _ Please  _ keep your celebration to the  _ other  _ side of the house. Okay? For me?”

Dean snickered and grinned back at his brother, then giving a shrug. There was another glance to the rearview mirror, followed by a wink.

“Eyes on the road, asshole,” Daryl tried to growl, but it turned into more of a whine. His face flushed, he quickly turned his body to face the window and tried to ignore the rest of the world. Bobby gave him a pat on the shoulder, and the chuckles eventually faded.

The ride was more comfortable after that little exchange, at least while they poked fun at Daryl's shyness after being so stoic. Daryl just tried to tune it out and let them have their fun. He'd make sure Dean knew otherwise by the end of the night.

By the time they pulled up to Bobby's house, Daryl had had to adjust himself several times, cross his legs, and think about exploding roadkill carcasses to keep himself in control. He was easily the first to get out of the car once Dean had parked.

“Sam, you got clothes and shit? Don't need nothing?” Daryl gruffly asked, only looking back over his shoulder. Sam responded by opening up the hood, grabbing a bag that had been buried beneath tons of weapons.

“Good,” Daryl muttered, turning away and heading up the stairs. There was still a deep blood trail on the porch, but it could be dealt with later. He had already showered off the blood before they left to pick up Sam, since being covered in gore would not make a good impression on him.

The meat had been packed away, parts of the deer still hanging to be dried, but he could check on them later. He had other things to worry about.

Stopping at the front door, Daryl turned and looked at Dean. “You comin’?”

Barking out a laugh at Daryl’s choice of words, Sam quipped, “I’m sure he will be.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean glared at his brother, then turned a blinding smile onto Daryl. “I deserve it, right? It’s like I just got out of jail!” 

Daryl growled. His patience had already been tested to the limit during the seemingly interminable car ride, and he was  _ done _ waiting. “Let’s fuckin’ go then, damn.”

Dean sobered for just a moment, and said, “I’ll be right there. Just want to talk to Sam real quick.”

Daryl’s gaze softened, and he nodded. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said, his gaze lingering on Dean’s lips, making the other man shift in his suddenly much more constricting jeans.

When Daryl turned and made his way inside, followed by Bobby, Dean walked over to Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and bumped Sam’s shoulder with his own. “You okay with this, Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean, I’m okay with it.” Sam looked through his bangs at his brother. “Just want you to be happy.”

Dean grinned, and bumped Sam’s shoulder again. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

\--

Stopping outside the door he knew to be Daryl’s, being the only decent spare bedroom in the house, Dean ran nervous fingers through his hair. He couldn’t help but think that he didn’t deserve any of this. Pressing his fingers lightly against the handprint on his arm, he winced. 

Why was he worth saving, and not anyone else?  _ Who _ had saved him for that matter. He was so caught up in the thoughts swirling around in his head, he jumped at the sound of Daryl’s voice.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard. Startin’ to smell smoke.” Daryl pulled open the door, and looked at Dean. He had taken off his leather vest, and was leaning against the door frame. “You gonna come inside at some point, or just stand in the hallway?”

Only making a quiet stuttering sound when he tried to talk, which was completely out of character for Dean, he just nodded, and walked inside the room. It was rather plain, having just converted a guest room into a more permanent room, had it not been for all the weapons placed on every surface available besides the full sized bed. His eyes lingered on the mattress for a moment, then he felt his cheeks light up red.

“I, uh… I’ve never done anything like this before. You know. With another guy,” Dean finally forced out, pulling his gaze up from the sheets and looking back at Daryl.

Daryl didn't seem surprised, grabbing a jacket off of his bed and tossing it to the side. “I figured. What with the nerves you’re showin’ and all,” he answered, then turned back to Dean.

When Daryl just stood there, his arms crossed, Dean shifted nervously. “So. How does it work? Do we flip for it, or something?” 

Daryl let out a startled laugh, but quickly brought himself back under control. “How about we just play it by ear, hmm? See what happens?”

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. I mean, you know… Shit. I don’t even know what I mean, how are you supposed to. Uh… How... Fuck.” Dean stared at Daryl, who was looking at him with one eyebrow quirked. “What the fuck, man? You’re doing that on purpose!”

Lips twitching, Daryl uncrossed his arms, and pulled Dean over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Jesus, Dean, relax. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen that you don’t want, okay?” 

Dean shifted on the edge of the mattress, his hands twisting within themselves, and he took in a deep breath. What he hadn't expected next was the hand that touched his cheek, turning his head to look back at Daryl.

“No one else here. Just us. Nothin’ else.” Daryl's words were quiet, soothing, his stormy blue eyes calm. The older hunter licked over his lips for a moment, as if trying to bide his time, before he leaned over.

“Eyes on me, nothin’ else.”

Dean swallowed, his mouth going dry for a moment, and Daryl seemed to catch the motion. He paused, giving Dean the chance to move away, but when the younger hunter did not, he smirked faintly.

He closed the distance between their lips slowly, his hand cradling Dean’s cheek just like he’d done on the porch. Their lips touched, carefully. Dean would set the pace. Dean would decide what he was ready for.

His hand trembling slightly, Dean reached out and rested his palm on Daryl's chest. The other man's heart was pounding as fast as his, and that did a lot to calm Dean down. 

Opening his mouth wider, and letting out a soft groan, Dean let his tongue be drawn into Daryl's mouth. He tasted like smoke, and peppermint. Pulling back just a bit, Dean grinned. “Never took you for a peppermint kind of guy. Always figured you'd be into something more herbal.”

“Usually am,” Daryl admitted. “Got some wild sage around the cabin I chew on. Like it better than that artificial shit.”

Dean ran his fingers over the ridge of Daryl's collar bone, before dipping them underneath his shirt. “I think I'd like anything if I got to taste it from your mouth.”

“Jesus, Dean, you can't say shit like that and expect me to keep my hands to myself.” 

“Who wants you to do that?”

Daryl shuddered when Dean's fingers dipped lower, rubbing across the top of his pectoral muscle. “Tryin’ not to freak you the fuck out here. Since you're new and all…”

Nudging aside some of Daryl's shaggy hair, Dean licked a path up to his earlobe and whispered, “May have never been with a guy before, but I'm not a blushing virgin. You're not going to scare me off.”

Daryl lifted an eyebrow, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure 'bout that?” he rasped, not bothering to conceal the shivers that raced up his spine from Dean's devilish tongue. He could think of a few things to put that tongue to work with.

The nip to his ear was answer enough, and a rumble built up in Daryl’s throat. God, all the things he wanted to do to this man…! Reaching a hand up and running his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Dean’s neck, Daryl ran his hand down until it brushed between his shoulders and just slipped beneath his shirt. He could feel Dean’s muscles twitching just beneath the skin, and felt a small pang of jealousy at the smoothness of it.

Daryl swallowed, chasing away the sensation and the anxiousness that surged up his throat. Even if Dean had seen his back, his scars, it didn't make it less nerve wracking. He’d never even shown Bobby, other than little slips here and there.

Daryl dragged himself away from those thoughts immediately, pressing his head into the small nook between Dean's neck and shoulder. Maybe if he tested the boundaries… See just what he could get away with.

His hand twisted into the back of Dean's shirt, pressing a kiss against his neck before baring his teeth, biting into the sensitive flesh. It wasn't hard enough to break the skin, he wouldn't do that to Dean unless Dean wanted him to. But  _ damn  _ would it bruise.

Twining a hand into Daryl’s hair, Dean tugged until Daryl’s lips were accessible once again. “It’s going to be like that, huh?” he said, as he leaned in and bit softly at Daryl’s lower lip. 

Grabbing the collar of his own shirt, Dean tugged it off and tossed it onto the floor. He reached for the tattered hem of Daryl’s shirt and began lifting it up, before being stopped by Daryl’s hand grasping his own.

“Not as nice lookin’ as you,” Daryl muttered, a slight flush on his cheeks.

Dean chuckled. “I’ve seen you shirtless already, remember? Was hard for a while after that, too.” He tugged on Daryl’s shirt again. “Want to see it again, see if it has the same effect.”

“Somethin’ I wanna do first,” Daryl said, leaning in close again, and pressing Dean back until he was laying flat on the bed. “Scoot up, and get comfortable. I may not let you leave this bedroom until we’re both dyin’ of thirst.”

When Dean had himself situated at the head of the bed, Daryl stood up. Pulling together all the confidence he could muster, Daryl pulled off his shirt, and tossed it aside. Instinctually, he reached up and grab a hold of the pendants on his necklace, the two crimson fangs and the steel wolf with red eyes, tightening his grasp.

He never told Dean what they were. Why they were important. He feared that the moment he did, Dean would push him away.

Daryl stiffened for a moment as he felt Dean’s eyes roaming over his exposed scars, but when the only visible reaction was a strengthening of the heat in Dean’s eyes, and an extremely noticeable bulge in his jeans, Daryl relaxed and dropped his hand from his necklace. “Guess you liked it after all,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Running a hand down his chest until it hit the waistband of his jeans, Dean nodded, and unbuttoned the first button. 

“Slow down there, tiger. We got all night,” Daryl chuckled. “Roll over.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “Wha- But, you haven’t- We just started, you said…. I…”  

“Dean, you still have your fuckin’ pants on, what the fuck am I gonna do? Fuck you through the denim? I don’t need friction burns on my dick, but thanks.”

Directing one last wary look at Daryl, Dean rolled over. Daryl got onto the bed, and straddled Dean’s back.

Groaning at the feel of the solid erection poking him in the backside, Dean squirmed a bit, pressing his own, equally hard erection into the bed, searching for some friction.

Daryl slapped at Dean’s hip. “None of that.”

Throwing a dirty look back over his shoulder, Dean grumbled under his breath, “Jerk.”

When Dean heard the snick of a bottle being opened, he tensed again, and glared back at Daryl. “Thought you said-”

“Fuckin’ hell!” Daryl yelled. “I’ll tell ya before I stick anything in your ass, okay? Just fuckin’  _ relax. _ ”

Only once Dean got a good look at the bottle Daryl held in his hand he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. It was lotion. Just plain old lotion, not some giant container of lube.

Dean couldn't help but grumble under his breath as he laid his chin back down upon the bed. He was doing his best to relax, but the feeling of Daryl moving atop his body, shifting and leaning…

“You better not come on m’bed. Not yet,” Daryl muttered, which only made Dean’s body tense up that much more. There was the lewd sound of the lotion being squeezed out Daryl's hand, then the sound of slick hands rubbing against each other, lotion squirting between his palms…

By the time Dean felt Daryl’s hands pressing against his shoulders, every nerve was ablaze. He had to bite down onto his bottom lip to hold back any sounds, and, just to be safe, press his face into the pillows.

“Just relax. You're too worked up. Wouldn't be able to fuck ya’ if I tried,” Daryl murmured, and Dean could feel Daryl’s huff of breath against his back. It caused a shiver to work it’s way up his spine, something that Daryl had surely caught, judging by the sound of his chuckle.

The large hands, the same that were always shooting that crossbow, stabbing creatures, slitting open carcasses, and butchering game, were now soft against his body. Daryl’s thumbs were rolling close to his spine, working their way up to Dean’s shoulder blades.

Dean sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly as palms rubbed against his back next, working from the middle, up to his shoulders, tending to each muscle he came across.

Daryl lifted his hands for a moment, which earned a soft whine from Dean, only to make him shiver again at the familiar sound of the bottle being squeezed.

This time Dean’s body didn't stiffen up as Daryl’s hands rested back down against his back. It allowed Daryl to move his hands more fluidly, rubbing into the muscles that were shifting with every breath, Daryl doing his best to trace their movements.

His hands shifted again, this time grasping close to Dean’s waist and working their way up, trailing across his ribs. It left a shine of lotion behind, and Dean was unable to hold back the low moan as Daryl's warm breath caressed across the sheen.

Daryl’s hands lifted with every breath, easing the pressure, before rolling back down as the breath escaped him, turning into a rhythmic tide of the fingers lifting and pressing, lifting and pressing, tracing the lines of Dean's sides and ribs with precision.

Daryl murmured something, but Dean was too lost in the rhythm of the hands, fully giving his body up to Daryl's will. It was only when he realized that the hands were no longer massaging, and, instead, were running across his body languidly that Dean blinked his eyes open. Dean hadn't even realized he’d closed them. Lazily looking over his shoulder, Dean cocked an eyebrow at Daryl.

Daryl was as close to a smile as Dean had ever seen, his head tilted to the side. His hands resumed their quest to memorize each of Dean’s muscles, and the smoothness of his body. “Fuckin’ putty now, aren't yah?” Daryl chuckled, leaning over and pressing a kiss against Dean’s freckled forehead.

Dean just mumbled into the pillows, almost as if Daryl's touches were drugging him. It made Daryl chuckle again, and he lifted his hand to run through Dean's hair. It left traces of the lotion, but Dean couldn't find it within himself to complain.

With exaggeratedly slow movements, at least in Dean's eyes, Daryl slid himself off of Dean's back and sat down on the bed beside him, making it creak just slightly.

Rolling onto his back, Dean raised his hands and beckoned Daryl over. Sliding himself over to lean above him, Daryl slid his fingers into Dean’s hair again, lifting the other man’s head slightly so he could press long, deep kisses to his lips. 

Removing his fingers from Dean’s hair, Daryl slid them down over the smooth chest in front of him. Raising wickedly glinting blue eyes to meet striking green ones, he ran his fingers over an already pebbled nipple, squeezing just a bit harder than he normally would. When he was rewarded with a moan and an arched back, Daryl grinned, and leaned in to swipe his tongue across it as well. He opened his mouth wider and bit down on the pad of flesh surrounding it, leaving a faint red impression of his teeth.

Dean grabbed at Daryl’s head, and fisted his hands in his hair, pressing Daryl’s face into his chest. “Fucking, more. Don’t stop.”

Bringing up his other hand, Daryl pinched at Dean’s neglected nipple while his tongue and teeth lavished attention onto the other one. “I knew you’d like it like this,” Daryl said, between long licks over the reddened flesh. “Knew you’d get off on it.”

“Fuck,” Dean groaned softly, tilting his head back into the pillows. “This what you think about in that cabin? All that time?”

A hum slipped from Daryl, his mouth lifting off Dean’s chest to smirk up at him, making sure to expose teeth. “Kept thinking 'bout how to ruin you. How to get that damn grin off your face and make you scream. Thought about taking my tongue and tracing a path down your body. Find every freckle, and use my tongue to play connect-the-dots.”

Not more than a moment after the words rasped from his throat Daryl shifted on the bed, pulling his hand from Dean's hair and instead pushing against his shoulder. It pushed Dean’s back down into the mattress, and Daryl moved over his body, pressing his knees down on either side of Dean's hips.

It was the movement of a predator trapping his prey, and the hungry look in Daryl’s stormy eyes burned deep into Dean’s.

Rolling his hips, Daryl grinned when Dean couldn’t hold back a loud moan at the friction of their erections rubbing together. Even through the denim of their jeans, Daryl had to concentrate to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. Leaning in close, Daryl spoke directly into Dean’s ear. “Want me to fuck you, Dean? That’s what I thought about. Even when I hated myself for it, I couldn’t stop thinking about pushing you up against the wall.” 

Daryl leaned over his body, his hands trapping Dean beneath him and letting his hot breath brush against bare skin. Running his tongue down the tendon in Dean’s neck, Daryl lightly bit down. “Wanted to fuck you in the Camaro. Wanted to fuck you after you walked in on me in the bathroom, too. I’ve never been much for jerkin’ off, but I’ve done more than my fair share these past couple years thanks to you.”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and do it then, dammit?”

Dropping a kiss onto Dean’s nose, a kiss that was almost too sweet to come from a man as rough as Daryl, he said, “Was waitin’ for you to ask. S’all you had to do.”

Running calloused fingers down to the waistband of Dean’s jeans, Daryl slowly unbuttoned the fly. His palm pressed firmly down onto Dean’s damp boxers, and he grinned. “Guess you really do want this, huh?” he said, and traced the length of Dean’s cock through the fabric. 

“Jesus Christ, Daryl, you’re gonna kill me before anything happens,” Dean groaned. He reached a hand into his boxers and pulled out his cock, unable to stop himself from sliding it up and down the length.

Daryl batted his hands away. “None a’that.”

Dean let out a high pitched whine that nearly made Daryl laugh, but he managed to hold himself back. Grabbing Dean’s boxers and jeans in both hands, he quickly stripped them off and threw them into the corner.

Not wasting any more time, Daryl slid down the bed, and sucked Dean’s cock right into his mouth with barely a moment for Dean to register what he was doing.

“ _ Fuckfuckfuck _ !” Dean yelled, his body jerking as Daryl’s tongue traced a pattern on the underside of his cock. Dean was no slouch in the size department, and he believed what he may have lacked in length, he more than made up for in girth. Daryl seemed to have no trouble swallowing down his entire length though, and from the blissed out look on his face, he was enjoying every second.

Pulling his mouth off, Daryl cupped a hand under Dean’s balls, and rubbed a thumb slowly across the seam in the middle. “Taste good.” Daryl licked his lips. “Wanna taste more.”

Dean was certainly not going to complain about Daryl's request, and he trembled at the firmness of Daryl's hands. He had never seen someone take him that easily, and it made his cock twitch against Daryl's lips.

Daryl didn't need any more prompting, and he gave a quick lick over the head, making sure to lap up the precome with a satisfied hum. Only once he was sure he got it all did he take Dean into his mouth again, letting out a muffled moan as he did so.

Not bothering to bite back the loud moan, Dean moved his hand to twist into Daryl's hair, greedily pushing his head down so Daryl would take him in completely. Daryl didn't seem bothered, and his other hand grasped Dean's hip in encouragement. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean gasped, his fingers tightening to the point that he was sure he had broken strands of hair when Daryl swallowed him down completely, his throat working around Dean’s dick. Only then did Daryl tug on Dean’s hips, slipping his hand beneath Dean's back. His palm rested against the small of Dean’s back, then pressed up. Daryl’s smoldering blue eyes snapped up, the pleading in them clear as day to Dean.

Even in his fogged state of mind, comprehending Daryl's need was easy for Dean. Pressing his other hand against the mattress, he carefully rolled his hips, pushing his cock deep into Daryl's mouth until Dean could plainly feel Daryl’s throat working around him. 

Daryl's moan vibrated around his cock, and it wiped away any hesitation from Dean’s body. He only stopped to adjust his grip in Daryl's hair before he gave a firmer thrust up, his jaw clenching as he felt Daryl’s tongue pressing against the underside of his cock.

After a few thrusts, Daryl stopped to take a few shaky breaths, but the hot air against Dean’s cock only made his need to come that much more present. He had been fighting a near constant erection the entire drive home, and Dean didn't know how much longer he could wait.

Daryl had already latched himself back ontto Dean's cock once the younger hunter could find a way to make words again. “God, Daryl, gonna make me… dammit!” Dean hissed as Daryl swallowed him down from a particularly hard thrust, blue eyes burning into Dean’s own green.

Seeing Daryl's mouth wrapped around his cock had to be one of the hottest things he had seen in his life, and his blue eyes were now throwing out a silent dare. Daring him to come. It was more than he could handle.

Clenching his fingers and knotting them into Daryl's hair, he pushed Daryl’s head down just as he thrust up, only to have his control slip away a bit quicker than he’d thought it would. Daryl's hot, tight mouth, and that downright wicked tongue were just too much.

It was a powerful rush of an orgasm, and Dean let out a loud moan of Daryl's name, followed by what could have been a string of expletives. Even he couldn't make heads or tails out of the mush, being far too focused on Daryl  _ easily  _ swallowing him down, without so much as a blink.

Spots flooded his vision, almost masking Daryl moving his hand up and clutching at the base of Dean's cock, his mouth now suckling at the head while his hand ran up and down the shaft. It practically milked out every drop from his body, and Daryl only released Dean from the torturous pleasure once he had grown soft. 

His body shuddering, Dean angled his hips away from Daryl’s mouth. “Oh fuck, you have to stop, or I’m going to have a stroke or something,” Dean said, one hand still clenched into a fist in the sheets. 

Untangling his hand from Daryl’s hair, he pulled on the other man’s shoulder. “Get up here.”

Sliding up the bed, Daryl nuzzled his face into Dean’s neck. His tongue snaked out to lick at the sweat coating Dean’s skin, and him let out a little hum of contentment. “Knew you’d taste good.”

Looking down at Daryl, Dean smiled softly. “Yeah? Share the wealth, man.”

Dean slid a hand to the nape of Daryl’s neck and pulled him up. Licking over the seam of his lips, Dean whined a bit. “C’mon, open up.”

Daryl complied, and Dean slid his tongue into a mouth filled with the taste of his own come. He wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to find that as sexy as he did. Shrugging mentally, he refocused on Daryl, swirling his tongue around, trying to explore every single bit of the other man’s mouth.

Daryl allowed Dean enough time to truly get a better taste before he pressed his lips against Dean's, his tongue pressing up against Dean's in some sort of show of dominance. Their saliva mixed along with the come, but Dean couldn't bear to break away until he had to come up for air.

“You and I taste pretty good together,” Dean grinned, when he finally pried his mouth away from Daryl’s. “Can I, you know… Return the favor?”

Laughing a bit, Daryl shook his head. “Naw. Wouldn’t take long, and I wanna fuck you. I’ll defile that pretty fuckin’ mouth of yours another time.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dean teased, leaning back up to catch Daryl's lips again. If Daryl could take him so easily then it shouldn't be  _ that  _ hard… Letting his fingers slide through Daryl's thick hair, he massaged into his scalp slowly. He had spent nights thinking about how Daryl’s hair would feel in his grasp after the night Daryl got drunk, and it was still surprisingly soft.

He could feel Daryl's hand on his side, fingers running up and down his lean torso. Each movement brought sparks, but the anxiousness was fading. Daryl seemed to sense the change as well.

Their kiss deepened, but it remained surprisingly gentle, sweet even. That is until Daryl moved his head back, looking back down at Dean with a serious expression. Immediately Dean felt his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach.

There was something wrong. Did  _ he _ do something wrong?

“What's up?” Dean asked, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice. Trying to hush his concerns, Daryl pressed his lips against Dean’s cheek, cradling the other side with his free hand.

“Nothin’, just…” Daryl sighed softly, pressing his forehead against Dean's. The younger hunter could barely hear past his own heart thundering in his chest, his lungs constricting.

Soft warm breath pressed against his lips, and Dean found it impossible to look away from the pools of blue. It was such a soft look, almost  _ loving. _ Daryl's thumb ran over his cheek, before the older hunter smiled.

“Just… 'm happy.”

It was spoken so quietly, so shyly that Dean thought he had misheard. 

He smiled up at Daryl, brushing fingers through his messy hair. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Tucking his face into Dean’s shoulder to hide his flaming cheeks, Daryl huffed out a laugh. “Never thought I’d have this again, ya know?” His voice was muffled against Dean’s throat, but every word seemed to resonate in Dean’s ears. “I’m not a great lookin’ guy, I can be pretty fuckin’ mean, and I just flat out don’t like most people. Thought Rick was the only one I’d ever be able to have this with.”

“You can have me, Daryl. For as long as you want me, okay?” Dean wrapped his hands around Daryl’s broad shoulders and held on tightly, pretending he didn’t feel the wetness that was leaking onto the skin of his neck.

“I’ve never… I’ve never had anything like this. Ever,” Dean sighed, his palms making long sweeping motions up and down Daryl’s back. It was surprising how little he noticed the scars, even when his fingers would catch on their edges. It was all  _ Daryl _ now. “The longest relationship I’ve ever had was something like three weeks. It’s pretty pathetic.”

He heard Daryl take in a deep, shivering breath in an attempt to calm himself. Dean squeezed Daryl’s shoulders, and tucked a finger under his chin, turning the misty blue eyes up to his. “Whatever this is, whatever it turns into, we’ll figure it all out together. I’m not going to run from it. I’d sort of like to know if you are…”

Daryl’s expression softened, and he practically melting into Dean's arms. Leaning up, he caught Dean's plush lips, giving him a long, slow kiss. “'M done runnin’ away,” he murmured against his lips, then closed the distance between them again.

With careful movements, Daryl shifted his arms to curl around Dean's waist and the back of his shoulders, pulling the man flush against his body. Heat returned to the kiss, tongues battled against each other, then Daryl pulled away with a rushed breath.

“One more thing,” Daryl murmured, the serious expression returning. Dean swallowed down his anxiety, knowing that nothing could ruin this moment for them. Not when they were so close, their bodies finding their way to link with each other.

“Anything,” Dean responded, his voice quiet. Their eyes locked again, and then Daryl sucked in a deep breath.

“...I don't got any condoms.”

“Don’t really care. I don’t like ‘em anyway.”

Daryl blinked, seemingly caught off guard. It seemed as if he had been completely prepared for Dean to push him off, demanding that he go and get some that instant or it was all off. They didn't  _ have  _ to have sex, after all, but… it sure as hell would be nice.

Looking down at Dean, who’d resumed that cheeky smile, Daryl huffed. “...'M assumin’ 'm not gonna come home to mini Dean's everywhere, right?” he sighed, but couldn't hide his own smirk as Dean laughed.

Shifting himself off the bed, Daryl stood up. His hand went to the leather belt, unbuckling and sliding it out. He couldn't help but notice Dean's cock give a twitch at the sound, and he now had every shred of Dean's attention.

Dropping the belt, Daryl unbuttoned his jeans, trying his best not to wince as his exceedingly hard cock was pushed against the denim. Refusing to waste any more time, Daryl unzipped his fly and let his jeans pool around to his ankles. The older hunter couldn't help but smirk at his partner, a glint back in his eyes.

Dean gulped, and his eyes widened. “Uh… Commando, huh? Cool.” His eyes refused to land on one spot for longer than one second, and they got wider every time he let himself look at Daryl’s fully erect cock.

Getting back on the bed on his hands and knees, he scooted over to Dean. “Lift your legs up, and put ‘em on my shoulders,” Daryl ordered, slapping a hand against Dean’s thigh.

Dean obeyed, licking his lips nervously. His legs instinctively clenched, feeling entirely exposed in a way that he had never experienced before.

“Relax, or I could hurt you.” Daryl said in a voice that tried to be soothing, then gestured at his dick. “I’m not exactly beginner friendly.”

“You're fucking not,” Dean breathed, his breath already getting heavy from just the sight of Daryl's cock. He was already rethinking the idea of it being easy to suck Daryl’s cock, his mind spinning with how the hell he could ever get it in his mouth at all.

Reaching out to the nightstand, Daryl pulled open the drawer and grabbed his bottle of lube. Slicking his fingers with a generous amount, he rubbed them together for a moment, warming it up. 

Feeling the tension once again running through Dean’s limbs, Daryl leaned down and mouthed along his hip bone, lightly biting. “C’mon, Dean, just think about how good it felt earlier when I was suckin’ you off. You liked that, right?”

Huffing out a laugh, Dean said, “Of course I liked it, what guy doesn’t like a mouth on their dick?”

Daryl shrugged. “Never know. Different strokes for different folks.”

“Kind of hard to relax when you’ve got that monster lurking in your pants.” Dean eyed Daryl’s cock, dubiously. “That’s never going to fit.”

“Oh, it’ll fit alright. But I’m not even gonna try to fuck you with it, ‘til you beg me. Get you so hot you won’t be thinkin’ of anything but how much you need me inside you,” Daryl said, his eyes hooded, and dark.

Grabbing hold of Dean’s semi-hard cock with one hand, Daryl ran the fingers of the other down behind his balls, searching. 

When Daryl’s fingers ran across and around the rim of his hole, Dean stiffened, and let out a loud groan. “You’re gonna love this,” Daryl whispered, “I can already tell. Gonna be a slut for it.”

Slowly rubbing on the outside of Dean’s hole, Daryl continued pumping the hand on Dean’s cock up and down. When he was fully hard, Daryl released it, and grinned wickedly at the slap it made as it smacked down against Dean’s stomach. “Love that fuckin’ noise.”

Dean couldn't help but hiss, his legs tightening again over Daryl's shoulders as he was suddenly released, and he only barely bit back the command for Daryl to touch him again. Daryl was busy ensuring that he wouldn't be split in half, he assumed. Hell, he still had no idea how Daryl could  _ possibly  _ fit.

Daryl chuckled, his eyes glinting at the sight of Dean squirming under his touch. He was still much too tight to attempt working a finger into him, and he couldn't help but think that they had a long way to go. Not like that would be a problem.

Slowly, Daryl let his fingers stroke up Dean's hard cock as it rested against his stomach, rubbing his thumb against beads of precome that had already started leaking out. “You're not hard to please,” Daryl teased, his grin widening.

In an attempt to distract the younger hunter, Daryl licked over his lips then leaned down, running his tongue across the head of Dean’s cock. At the same moment, he rubbed his finger around Dean's rim, teasing in an attempt to gain access.

“'M curious,” Daryl rasped between licks, his hair running across Dean’s toned stomach with each lick. “...did you ever try to fuck yourself? Ever got  _ naughty _ ?” Sharp, heated eyes flicked back up to Dean's face. Daryl put a tentative bit of pressure against his hole, testing the tightness.

“No!” Dean almost yelled the word, and his face went bright red, already betraying him.

“Uh huh. Don’t worry, man, I believe you.” Daryl rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the task at hand. “I was gonna say though, that if you ever  _ had _ done it, and you’d done it right, you’d know how good it can feel. So, why don’t you relax, and I’ll remind you.” Daryl grinned, and corrected himself. “I mean, I’ll show you. Since you’ve never done it before.”

Closing his eyes, Dean took several deep breaths, and slowly his body relaxed. “I may have done it once or twice,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.

“S’what I thought. Did ya do it right? It feel good?” Daryl’s finger was constantly massaging around the rim of Dean’s hole while he talked, pressing a bit harder with each pass.

“It didn’t feel like  _ that _ ,” Dean moaned, his eyes fluttering open and locking with Daryl’s. 

Picking up the lube bottle again, Daryl drizzled more of the slick fluid down into the cleft of Dean’s ass, catching some of it on his fingers. Feeling Dean relax, Daryl finally pressed one finger inside, carefully watching for any signs of pain.

“How’s it feel?”

Dean thought for a moment and answered, “Weird. But not bad.”

“Just wait, and then tell me again,” Daryl smirked, pressing his finger in farther, and moving it around in circles.

Daryl let out a triumphant grin when Dean nearly jumped off the bed seconds later. “How’s it feel now?”

“Holy  _ shit _ , what was that!?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of gay sex, Dean.  _ That _ ,” Daryl said, as he pressed down harder, “Is your prostate.”

Even when Dean tried to prepare himself for  _ that _ , he wasn't able to hide the yelp. His back arched, and he had to anchor his hands into the sheets to resist the urge to grab Daryl or his now weeping cock.

“Jesus-...!”

Dean trembled a few moments, then swallowed down a few mouthfuls of air to calm himself again. Even then, his breathing was still rushed. His eyes closed, lewd images of what Daryl was about to do to him running rampant through his mind.

Daryl felt Dean momentarily clench around him, but after a few seconds he loosened back up. He was nearly two knuckles deep when he shifted his finger away from Dean’s prostate. The last thing he needed was Dean to come early.

...not that it took much effort to arouse him again.

Daryl absentmindedly licked his lips, letting his fingers press against the inside of Dean's right thigh and started to stroke the smooth skin. It took more effort than he realized to keep his hand from wanting to grasp his own hard cock and give it a few strokes, as the sight of Dean stretched out and exposed to him was  _ delicious. _

“God, what 'm I gonna do to ya’… Maybe I'll pin you down, make you beg for my cock.” Daryl glanced back up to Dean's face, focusing on the blissed out expression there. He had to swallow down the saliva that flowed just at the sight.

“Or maybe I'll let you ride me. Have ya’ sit on my lap like a good boy.”

Dean let out a soft moan, and Daryl grinned, knowing that Dean's thoughts had to be filthy at this point. Even Daryl had a hard time keeping his concentration on stretching Dean slowly, making small circles at first then curling his finger.

When he was sure Dean was ready, Daryl added more lube to his second finger and slid it just inside, not even to the first knuckle yet.

The other man's breathing hitched, and Daryl paused as he allowed him to get used to the strange sensation. He watched Dean’s Adam's Apple bob with a hard swallow, then let his breath out in a shaky pant. “M-more,” he grunted, and Daryl obliged.

“So greedy already, practically suckin’ me in,” Daryl breathed, a strange pride swelling in his chest. He let his second finger slide in up to the first knuckle, then started working on getting Dean ready for the third.

Dean rocked his hips just slightly, pressing down against Daryl’s fingers.

“Lookin’ for your spot?” Daryl asked, able to trace the concentration in Dean's features. Dean’s hips rocked again against Daryl’s fingers, followed by a soft grunt.

Not wishing to disappoint the younger man, Daryl let both of his fingers brush up against his prostate. Dean barely suppressed a moan, biting onto his bottom lip, practically chewing on it. Sweat was beading on his brow, and his hands trembled, clawing into the blankets for a better hold.

“Lemme hear you, Dean. Wanna hear your voice.” 

Dean slowly unhinged his jaw, letting out a startled moan as Daryl brushed up against his prostate again.

“Such a good boy,” Daryl cooed, starting to work in the third finger. Dean flinched, and Daryl immediately drew it back.

It made Dean mewl in distress, and the only way Daryl knew what he wished was when Dean’s hips pushed back up against his hand. “I-I'm sorry, just- it surprised me, I won’t-”

“I gotcha, tiger, no reason to 'pologize,” Daryl soothed, letting his hand run up and down Dean's thigh again. His eyes were glued to Dean's face, watching as his jaw clenched and unclenched, a drop of sweat slipping down his temple. Daryl swallowed.

Dean finally let his hips still again, just as Daryl slowly pressed the third finger inside. His fingers caressed against his walls, curling to properly lube him. He would need every bit, as Daryl refused to allow himself to hurt Dean.

Not this time. Not the first time. Dean would feel nothing but pleasure, how good it could feel when he trusted Daryl with his body.

“There you go, so good for me,” Daryl rasped, his own voice starting to get heavy with lust. He had dreamed about this moment for months if not years, even when he’d hated himself for it, beat himself, punished himself. Ever since that night in the woods, when he had pinned Dean down to the ground, feeling him fight against his hold…

The burns Daryl received to his hand that night made it hard to jerk off, but he certainly didn't let it stop him. 

His fingers were slipping in and out easier by now, but Daryl added more lube to push in that much farther. He didn't expect Dean to take him completely on the first try, Rick couldn't. Then again, they were both pathetic virgins unable to get a good hold of the bottle of lube because they had accidentally knocked off the lid and got it  _ all over  _ the bed.

Daryl mentally shook himself. He would focus  _ only  _ on Dean.

“Think you're ready for me? Been so good,” Daryl asked, hearing Dean let out a whine at his words.

His eyes flicked down to small pool of precome on Dean's stomach, and it took all he had to not lick it up.

Daryl maneuvered himself until he lay on his side next to Dean, his hand going to his own cock, making sure it was nice and slick. Pressing his face into Dean’s neck, Daryl whispered, “I can’t wait to see you riding my cock. Gonna be so fuckin’ hot.”

“Fuck yes,” Dean moaned, sitting himself up, and pushing on Daryl’s shoulder until he sat up against the headboard. Throwing a leg over Daryl’s hips, Dean moaned as their cocks brushed together.

Moving his hands to Dean’s hips, Daryl pulled him forward so his cock was resting in the cleft of Dean’s ass.

Dean reached a hand back, and started stroking over Daryl’s slick cock, drawing a loud moan from the other man.

“Easy now, or this show is gonna be over before it even gets started.”

“Not a fucking chance,” Dean growled. Tucking his feet onto the tops of Daryl’s thighs for leverage, Dean lifted himself up, and positioned Daryl’s cock at his entrance.

Daryl’s fingers clenched on Dean’s hips, and his breath stuttered at the feeling of that tight hole fluttering around the tip of his cock. “Go as slow as you need to, okay?” he said, his voice hoarse, and strained.

As he started pressing down, Dean’s teeth clenched, and a hiss escaped his tightly drawn mouth.

Daryl released one of Dean’s hips, and started rubbing soothing circles on his stomach. “The first part is the hardest. Get past that, and we’re golden.”

“It burns,” Dean hissed, one hand cupping his softening cock, the other braced on Daryl’s shoulder. “That normal?”

“Yeah, s’normal. Stay as relaxed as you can, and push out. That’ll help.”

Dean did as Daryl suggested, and pushed down again, his mouth dropping open on a groan when the head of Daryl’s cock slid past the tight ring of muscle. “Oh shit, it worked, it’s inside.” He looked down at Daryl, and the other man’s eyes were glued to the sight of his cock opening up Dean’s hole.

“Oh my God, that feels fuckin’ good,” Daryl said, his voice a rumbling growl. “Looks amazin’, too. Slide down some more. Wanna feel you wrapped around me.”

Working himself up and down, taking in a little bit more of Daryl with each movement, Dean shut his eyes. He’d never felt anything like this in his entire life. Daryl’s hands were constantly roaming over his body, providing a much needed distraction from the burn. Pulling at his nipples, and scraping his fingernails over his hip bones. Rubbing at the crease between his hip and thigh, softly massaging his balls, and stroking over his cock. Taking a deep breath, Dean slowly sank down entirely onto Daryl.

Dean grabbed hold of Daryl’s shoulders. He was panting, and a light sheen of sweat coated his body. “I can’t believe it fucking fits.”

His pupils blown so wide that Dean could only see the barest ring of blue, Daryl lunged up and grabbed hold of the nape of Dean’s neck. He plunged his tongue into Dean’s mouth, his other hand reaching behind Dean to grip onto his ass cheek. Daryl growled as he pulled his mouth away, and his hips twitched upwards.

“Oh fuck,” Daryl panted, his eyes slamming shut. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and his hips twitched again. “Tell me to stop, Dean. Tell me to  _ wait. _ ”

Leaning his forehead against Daryl’s, Dean ran his fingers through the other man’s sweat damp hair. “As much as the idea of you letting loose turns me right the fuck on,” he said, gesturing to his rapidly hardening cock, “Probably not a good idea. New at this, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.” His fingers flexing on Dean’s ass, Daryl lifted him up a bit. “Move, or I’m gonna die, jesus.”

His hand still buried in Daryl’s hair, Dean tentatively lifted his hips, and slid upwards. His eyes shut, anticipating the burn as he moved back down, only to be pleasantly surprised when the pain was almost completely absent. It was replaced with a feeling of fullness that verged right on the edge of uncomfortable, but Dean figured he’d learn to love it. He was doubly sure of that, when, on his next up and down slide, Daryl’s cock pressed right against his prostate. 

A surprised groan left his lips, his hand clenching onto Daryl’s hair and pulling sharply. This seemed to only fuel Daryl, judging by his low, shocked growl he let out.

“Right there?” Daryl asked, his voice still thick and low.

“Fuck, yes, do that again.”

Daryl slammed his hips up hard, making Dean shout out a curse, and slam his hand against the wall above the headboard.

“Careful there, cowboy,” Daryl teased, thrusting his hips back up. “Don’t think you want anyone bustin’ into the room while I’m balls deep.”

“Fuck ‘em all, I locked the door,” Dean panted, slamming his hand against the wall again.

Dean threw his head back, and let out a shout when the head of Daryl’s cock hit him just right. “Don’t fucking stop doing that, or I’ll kill you.”

Daryl’s eyes flashed at the challenge, his hand tightening on the nape of Dean’s neck. He leaned forward sharply, biting against Dean’s exposed throat. “You asked for it,” Daryl snarled, surging up and pushing Dean down onto his back.

The other hunter was quite surprised at this movement, wincing as he was practically thrown down onto the bed, making it creak loudly. Any attempt to complain, though, was cut off by a fierce kiss.

His cock still firmly in place, Daryl snapped his hips down, fucking Dean into the mattress. Grabbing Dean’s leg, and throwing it over his shoulder, he set a brutal pace.

The room was filled with slapping sounds, the bed creaking, and their combined groans echoing off the walls.

Digging his feet into the mattress for more leverage, Daryl worked himself in and out of Dean’s shuddering body. He was practically hunched over the other man, his hips pumping frantically, chasing down his own release.

Dean’s fingers dug furrows into Daryl’s back, and Daryl didn’t even flinch, just fucked Dean even harder. He dug his hands underneath Dean’s arms, and curled them around his shoulders, jerking the other man up onto his cock. Any remnant of control was gone.

The friction of Daryl’s rapidly moving stomach against Dean’s impossibly hard cock was nearly enough to make him blackout. He was seeing stars, planets, and whole fucking galaxies behind his tightly clenched eyes.

“I’m gonna come, Daryl, gonna!”

“Fuck that!” Daryl growled, pulling out of Dean and flipping him over in a swift moment that left Dean dizzy. “Up on your knees, now.”

Blinking open eyes that had gone hazy with pleasure, Dean looked up at Daryl in confusion. “W-what?”

“Knees,” Daryl repeated, his voice a deep, commanding growl. “Now. Back to me.”

Scrambling up as quickly as he could, Dean pressed his back against Daryl’s chest. He could feel the tips of the claw-like charms on Daryl’s necklace digging into his back, and the thick chain that held them.

Daryl tucked his head into Dean’s neck, and bit lightly. He pushed down hard against Dean's shoulder, making him fall down to all fours. He only allowed himself a moment to stare at the bites and slight bruising already littering Dean’s once spotless skin. He wanted more.

Pulling his hips back, Daryl rubbed the head of his cock across Dean’s red, stretched out hole. “Want me to put this back inside?” he whispered, his breath washing over Dean’s neck, making him shiver. An arm curled around his chest, then tightened hard to force Dean flush against him. To keep some stability, he pushed his other hand into the mattress.

“Want you to make me come. Want you to fuck me until I can’t take it anymore, and then I want you to do it all over again.” Dean looked back over his shoulder to meet Daryl's lustful gaze, his eyes bright. “Want to fuck you, too, if you’ll let me.”

Daryl’s breath hitched. The thought of Dean fucking him did all kinds of things to Daryl’s insides. He had to swallow down the rapidly building heat that rushed through him at the thought of Dean fucking him. “Let’s get through this time first, how about that? We’ll talk about all that other shit after.”

Shifting the hand he’d wrapped around Dean's hip, Daryl grabbed Dean's cock, and gave it a hard stroke. “ _ Shit,”  _ Dean cursed, pushing his head into the bed. All he wanted was to feel Daryl back inside him, fucking him senseless… “Damn it, Daryl, fuck me!”

A growl rumbled above Dean, vibrating against his back. “Not good 'nough.”

Daryl’s hand clenched around Dean's cock, forcing him to let out a startled moan. He bit down onto his bottom lip, shaking beneath Daryl's weight. “D-damn it, Daryl!”

“Beg.”

_ “Fuck!” _

When he felt Daryl’s weight start to lift off of his back, Dean immediately started stammering. “D-Daryl, please, fuck me! Want you to fuck me!”

His breath caught in his throat as he felt the tip of Daryl's hard cock against his hole, then groaned as it paused. “ _ Please! _ ”

A kiss was pressed against the back of his neck, and Dean moaned when Daryl’s hot breath wafted against his sensitive skin.

“Such a good boy.”

Biting lightly at Dean’s shoulder, Daryl released Dean’s cock, only to sink his fingers into Dean’s hip instead. In one solid, fluid motion, Daryl thrust his hips forward, sinking himself deep into Dean.

Dean's knees buckled beneath him, yet Daryl managed to hold him up against his body. “Gonna make you come all over my bed,” Daryl rasped, then let his teeth connect with Dean’s shoulder again.

Dean groaned through gritted teeth, his body shaking beneath Daryl. “M-make me!”

A chuckle rumbled in Daryl's chest, then he let the hand not clutching Dean's hip start running up and down Dean's cock. Dean’s cock was dripping now, and at this point, Daryl knew it wouldn't take much to tip him over the edge.

Daryl's hips snapped forward, and Dean cried out. It only pushed Daryl to thrust faster into Dean’s body. He’d angled his hips perfectly, judging by Dean’s hoarse yell, to strike Dean's prostate with every thrust.

“C’mon, don't hold back on me,” Daryl growled, shoving his hips forward, hammering into Dean’s prostate with deadly accuracy.

“S-shit,  _ Daryl…!”  _

As soon as his name was pulled from Dean's lips, Daryl felt Dean’s body clench around him, and sank his teeth down into the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean came hard against his hand, stroking almost madly as his come splattered across the bed.

Daryl found no reason to hold out anymore, not when he could feel Dean clenching hard on his cock, and that  _ scream… _ it was too much.

With a beastly snarl, his hips thrust forward once more, then finally let himself go. It was so hard, so intense, that he could barely remember his own name. All he knew was that he couldn’t not stop until he’d absolutely wrecked Dean.

Dean's arms were shaking beneath him, and by the time he had stopped coming, he collapsed into the mattress. His own come was hot and sticky against his body, but he didn’t care in the least. He was too busy trying to catch his breath, clinging to his orgasm-induced high while it lasted.

Daryl was conscious enough to keep himself from collapsing directly on top of Dean, instead doing his best to tilt to the side. The hand he’d clamped onto Dean’s hip slowly released as he unhinged his jaw, and Daryl realized that he had broken the skin just enough to taste blood.

Still too hazy to feel guilty, the older hunter tucked his arm back around Dean's chest and pressed him to rest against his body, pulling him out of his mess to rest onto his side. Daryl winced, forcing himself to ease his softening cock out of Dean's body.

The room turned quiet, apart from their loud breathing, and the occasional attempt at talking, only to give up without either of them saying a word. Daryl was focused on the imprint of his teeth against Dean's shoulder, watching a few of the slight indentations fill with a light film of blood..

Slowly, carefully, he leaned his head up and swiped his tongue across the cuts, the taste of Dean's blood sending an odd shiver down his spine. Daryl's breathing began to even out with each lick, and he pressed his forehead against Dean's sweat-slicked shoulder when he was sure the slight bleeding had stopped.

“...fuck.”

Dean's whisper was followed by a snort from Daryl, then came wheezy laughs from the both of them.

After a few minutes spent coming down from their sexual highs, Daryl rubbed absently at his stomach. He nudged Dean with his elbow. “You hungry?”

“God, yes,” Dean laughed. “I'm starving.”

Slapping Dean's thigh, Daryl rolled out of bed, taking care not to kneel in the wet spot. “There's some deer downstairs.” Daryl's chest puffed out a bit. “Got me a sixteen point buck yesterday.”

“Well, aren't you just the manliest man ever to man,” Dean grinned, his eyes twinkling up at Daryl.

Daryl threw a pair of jeans at Dean's head, not quite sure if they were his own or actually Dean's. “Shut up, and cover up that pretty ass of yours before I get the idea in my head to fuck it again.”

Dean shifted to a sitting position with a grimace. “Yeah, sorry to disappoint you, Dare, but I'm out of commission for at least a day.”

Daryl grinned wickedly, and licked his lips. “Plenty of other things we can do while you rest up.”

“Feed me, then I'd like to talk about those things.” Dean slid his legs into the jeans, managing only a small hiss of pain as he stood up. He looked over at Daryl as he was buttoning up. “Does Bobby have any pie?”

When they were both dressed, they tiptoed downstairs. Dean was hopeful that Sam and Bobby had slept through his… Vocal performance. He'd never been so loud before. Daryl must bring out the screamer in him.

Peeking around corner into the kitchen, Dean sighed in relief to find it was empty. Taking a seat at the table and trying not to shift around too much to find a less painful sitting position, he watched Daryl putter around, gathering ingredients. 

“What are we having?” Dean asked.

“Nothing special. Fry up some of the back strap, an’ make a gravy with the drippings. Bobby has some leftover rice in the fridge we can have with it.”

“You had me at fry,” Dean said, his hand going to rub at his growling stomach.

A few minutes later, Daryl was just putting some salt and pepper into the gravy, when Bobby and Sam walked into the room.

“Hey, look Bobby, the sex fiends came out of their cave!” Sam yelled, his voice entirely too loud for the early hour.

Dean glared at Sam, and flipped up his middle finger. “Jealous?”

Bobby just laughed, and looked between Dean and Daryl. “Glad you boys are happy, but would you mind keeping it down a little next time? I need my beauty sleep, after all.”

Blushing fiercely, Daryl set the pan of deer in gravy onto the table, along with a bowl of rice. “Sorry,” he mumbled, shooting a quick grin over at Dean.

Sam crowed loudly and pointed at Daryl, “No you're not! I see that grin, you degenerate!”

Taking a seat across from Dean, Daryl glowered at Sam. “Shut up.”

Having helped himself to a large serving of deer and gravy, Dean shoveled a massive forkful into his mouth. A loud moan, not unlike what had echoed around the house earlier, came out of his mouth. “Daryl, you're a fucking genius,” he said, stuffing his face as fast as he could.

Daryl blushed even harder when the sentiment was repeated by the other two men at the table.

Glancing around, and taking in the happy sighs and contented smiles, Daryl thought maybe, just maybe, his life was starting to take a turn for the better.


End file.
